


A Graced Kingdom

by angvlicmish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Bottom Castiel, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-05-02 12:44:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 152,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14545044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angvlicmish/pseuds/angvlicmish
Summary: Ten years ago, the Northern Continent was at peace, angels and humans living side by side until the human King Winchester of Torrin waged war against the angels in an attempt to wipe them out - an attempt that almost succeeded. However, to this day some angels still remain in hiding and with an unpredictable turn of events one of them finds himself as the personal guard to King Winchester’s firstborn son, Prince Dean. With a strange ability no angel has had before - to hide his own wings - no one knows that they have just let their greatest enemy into the heart of their kingdom.Alone and struggling to deal with being surrounded by the ones who slaughtered his people, Castiel comes head to head with the Crown Prince. But what he finds within the man is not what he expected and they soon become each other’s only comfort.Will Dean be the strength Castiel needs to pull through or will he be the weakness that will tear everything to pieces?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start with this fic, I would like to say a few things first. This fic will contain many dark themes including violence, abuse, one instance of animal cruelty and one instance of attempted rape/non con and just general horribleness. There will be many light parts in this fic but the overall tone is dark and angsty. I will be giving warnings for any graphic depictions of the things I listed above but just be warned before you start. Also, this makes it sound really horrible - it's not that horrible I swear it's 90% Dean and Cas staring at each other but these things will be present. As this is a WIP I will try to update the tags as I go.
> 
> As this is a medieval/fantasy story there will be original characters. I mostly did this because I love medieval names XD but along the way I also decided to add a few very small POV's from some of the side characters. Again, very small POV's and none that interfere with the storyline that is Dean and Cas.
> 
> This is currently a WIP. I have written just over 90k so far and if I keep to schedule I will stay far ahead of my posting times and will hopefully finish by the end of the year or the start of next year. 
> 
> While this is a medieval story it is also based in a fantasy world of my own design and therefore nothing is accurate to medieval times - this is merely my own imagination.
> 
> I'm incredibly excited to share this as I have been working on it for a while now, so thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy! ♥

 

 

 

**Part I: Wings**

 

Snowflakes fall to the ground, catching Nicolaus' coat and blonde hair on the way. He brushes them off, looking up to the sky to see dark clouds to the east.  
  
"Looks like the prince's birthday carnival may have to be moved inside," Nicolaus says, looking back towards the main gate where a multitude of servants are scuffling around in the snow to erect the brightly coloured tents and royal banners. Others attend the stalls, constructing them first before decorating them with rich colours and festival games.  
  
They've been working since the early hours of the morning, far before the sun had risen on the horizon. The structures spread all the way across the front of the castle, and two rows back - the servants only just starting to work on the third and last. It's quite the spectacle. Would be a shame to see all of it torn down in favour of an inside event. Nicolaus had risen with them, attending his morning duties and indulging himself to have a peek at the promising set up. The celebrations seem to get more exquisite every year.  
  
Catharlo grunts beside him. "I wouldn't mind. Would rather not be told to stand guard soaking wet all evening." Nicolaus nods. He guesses he would prefer to be dry rather than wet, no matter how promising the display. His mind wanders elsewhere as they trudge through the snow, just inside the outer wall.  
  
They've been assigned the unfortunate job of scouting the perimeter, all to make sure there isn't any weakness - any place where an intruder could get in.

The outer wall, however, is impenetrable, stones stacked fifteen feet high and three feet wide. The wall had only been fully functioning for two years now, having taken the effort of hundreds of men to construct it over seven years, not too long after the Queen was taken from her chamber by the angels themselves. She was never found and assumed dead, the king had ordered an outer wall to be constructed - seeming as their inner gate wasn't enough to keep out the savages. Seven years. Nicolaus had done his fair share of it. He still remembers those worst days. The scorching heat, blistering his hands and feet.  
  
But it had been successful. And no one has broken through since. It really is impenetrable. And it's why the royal guard usually don't bother, but for any event, the protocol is to scout three times a day, for one week before and one week after the event. Just to be sure.  
  
The snow seems to be letting up as they continue to walk, silent and focused. The sound of raucous laughter cuts through the silence and Nicolaus cranes his neck again, squinting in the far distance to see someone atop a black stallion. He can't make out any features from so far away but he knows who it is. The Crown Prince.  
  
"Do you think it's true?" Nicolaus asks, turning back to the man at his side, the eagerness showing in his voice already. "Is the Crown Prince really going to be choosing his new personal guard in the next few moons?"  
  
Catharlo shakes his head, bringing a hand up to run through his beard. "Not a few moons. A whole year. On his twenty-second birthday." Nicolaus narrows his eyes.  
  
"How do you know all this?"  
  
"Dimarus told me," Catharlo says, and while there's nothing smug about his face, Nicolaus feels a surge of jealousy. Dimarus, the Captain of the Guard and close friend to the Crown Prince, likes to pick favourites. Apparently, Nicolaus isn't one of them. Even after all he's done. All he's ever shown is loyalty and fierce commitment. And yet…  
  
But if Catharlo is right, he has almost a whole year before Heymon, Prince Dean's current personal guard, steps down and Dean chooses his own personal guard. A whole year to work his way up the ranks and show that he's the perfect guard, servant and loyal friend for the Crown Prince to desire.  
  
"Is it really that important to you?" Nicolaus is startled out of his thoughts, looking over to find Catharlo observing him, eyebrows raised. Of course Catharlo would say that. The man's a beast. One of the biggest and strongest of all the guards here in the castle. He's young too, only having had his twenty-third birthday not too long ago, therefore he has a long time before he burns out. Nicolaus doesn't have that youth. But if he can make it to the prince's personal guard next year, he can be living in luxury for nearly a decade.  
  
"Of course, it is. It is to everyone. A large room just to yourself, a personal bath, eating the same food as the prince and being a part of important meetings involving the king. Who wouldn't want that?" Catharlo pauses for a moment, as though thinking to himself, before shrugging.  
  
"It would be nice. But some of us just want to serve our prince, not bathe in hot water." Nicolaus scowls. Of course he doesn't understand. Catharlo has never and will never have to struggle with anything in his life. He was probably born with a sword in his hand and place already reserved for him in the royal guard. Everything given to him for free. Well, Nicolaus wasn't born with a sword in his hand. He had to fight and claw and struggle to get to where he is now. He will not have someone like Catharlo beat him to his rightful position.  
  
"I'll serve our prince until the day I die. But wanting a little bit of luxury on the side doesn't make me scum," he says, trying to keep his anger from simmering to the surface. He clenches his fists at his sides.  
  
Catharlo shrugs again but doesn't say anything more, his hands clasped together behind his back. If anything, it infuriates Nicolaus more. But he doesn't want to cause an unnecessary fight. He needs to save his strength. Instead, he clasps his own hands behind his back, holds his head high and continues trudging through the snow.  
  
They come to a stop at their next checkpoint, the north-west tower, making their way inside and up the winding stairs to halt in front of a wooden door with grey, metal latches. A patterned knock and voice command later and the guards inside are letting them in. The towers are all about sixteen feet high and made of stone, the same as the wall. The only window is a twenty-inch-tall slit in the stone, that faces outwards towards the Ellwood Forest for the guards to easily look out and scout through. It goes halfway around the tower, wide enough for the guards to see all the way from the west to the north.

The slit is too small for any grown man to fit into and the stone is too flat for anyone to climb, making the only real entries to the castle through the heavily guarded front gate, west gate and north gate. The east gate, of course, doesn't exist, the wall cutting off where it meets the cliff overhanging the Eastern Ocean. All ships can be seen from the north-east and south-east tower and there has never been any attempt to climb the cliff. Unless someone wants to fall to their death amongst the sharp rocks below.  
  
There are only two guards inside the tower, neither of which he recognises. Catharlo immediately starts asking the guards routine questions about anything that's happened or not happened in the last few hours. Nicolaus doesn't bother listening and he turns to look at the small, wooden table with the guard's food and water for their shift. Nothing that looks too appetising. And especially not considering, one of the fucking idiots decided to place the piss bucket right next to the table.  
  
He turns his nose up at the smell, rolling his eyes and walking over to the slit in the stone to breathe in some fresh air. The first roar of thunder sounds and the other guard's voices behind him fade into background noise.  
  
A year. He has a whole year. He can do that. It will take a lot of early mornings and late nights but the dedication will pay off in the end. He's sure of it. Sure of himself and his own potential. And anyone that gets in his way – especially someone who hasn't rightfully earnt it - he will tear down. He doesn't care what the others might--  
  
Lightning flashes, the sky lit up and just there in the centre of Nicolaus' vision, beyond the tree line – wings. For some reason, in this very moment, Nicolaus freezes, a surge of panic climbing in his throat, preventing him from calling out.

He's never seen an angel before. No one has in years. In eight years since three last angels were apprehended down near Senly – only a year after the war had started – and were killed. And there, right there in front of him are large, black wings at full spread. Nicolaus' eyes follow the line of the wings in the dark of the forest, trying to find the owner – something he can remember – anything. It's a woman. Long, black hair, blowing in the wind, as its own wings rustle at its back. It's hard to make out such features from a distance but from what he can see, the angel’s face is emotionless, empty.  
  
The panic surges once more and Nicolaus finally yells, "Look! An angel! An angel!" He turns, Catharlo and the guard’s eyes widening, before they're quickly at his side peering through the slit.  
  
He glances back and blinks.  
  
The tree line stands empty.  
  
A chill runs up his spine.  
  
"Where? Nicolaus!" Catharlo shouts, his head jerking in each and every direction. Nicolaus raises a shaky finger – why is he shaking?  
  
"It was… just over there. Beyond the tree line." The other guard's give him a disbelieving look.  
  
"You had a drink too many?" one of them asks, and Nicolaus clenches his fists - that rage bubbling up inside of him. But suddenly there's another flash of lightning and as he looks out again, one of the trees skeletal branches looks strangely like a wing of an angel.  
  
"I swear, I saw one. We have to tell the captain," he says, an urgency in his own voice that he doesn't recognise. He's never thought of himself as being afraid of the angels. But that empty, emotionless face… Nicolaus doesn’t think he's ever been more terrified in his life.  
  
Catharlo gives him a sympathetic look. "Are you sure you saw one? Because if you're not sure and you cause the castle to go into lockdown on the Crown Prince's birthday…"  
  
Conflicting emotions clash inside of Nicolaus. He looks back out to the tree line. It was right there. Or was he just cold and frustrated and the lightning was playing tricks on him?  
  
"We still have to stop by the last three towers. You can decide on our way." If he causes panic throughout the entire castle – throughout the entire city – and it ends up being nothing at all, he'll never have a chance at becoming the Crown Prince's guard. Nicolaus nods and makes his way down the stairs without another word.  
  
Somewhere along the way to the final tower, Nicolaus decides not to tell the captain and the birthday carnival – while unfortunately moved inside due to the rain – goes on. It goes on and on into the night, everyone, including the Crown Prince himself having a wonderful time despite the weather.  
  
And when Nicolaus wakes up the next morning to the castle and everyone inside of it still in one piece, he realises it must have been a trick of the light. He laughs to himself, although there is a part of him, a part of him that claws its way up like bile in his throat and makes him afraid.

He pushes it back down.  
  
The castle walls are impenetrable. Even if any angels still existed, none could ever get inside. And with that, he pins on his fur coat and makes his way out into the hall to start the day.

 

**One Year Later**

 

Waiting in the shadow of an inn, Castiel observes as travellers walk or ride on horseback or in wagons over the stone bridge and into the town of Kalapell. The inn is in a prime spot it seems, many of the travellers converging on the small wooden building as soon as it comes into sight through the mist. There are families, troupes and a few lone riders. He watches passively as two young stable boys attempt to take on all of the traveller's horses and pack animals before ushering the travellers themselves inside with promises of warm baths, comfortable beds and their special house made stew to warm them up from the inside.  
  
He watches many different kinds of people cross the bridge that passes over the freezing canal – separating the town from the long winding roads that lead out in the farmlands. None are as interesting as the carriage that rolls across not too long after. It certainly stands out.

Kalapell is not a poor town but it's not the richest either. The carriage is pulled by two brown horses, groomed to perfection and the carriage itself is made of rich, lacquered wood with silver latches that appear as though they may have been polished for hours on end for Castiel can practically see the bridge in their reflection. The two men sitting at the front, reins in hands, are guards. With the help of the carriage’s lanterns bobbling overheard, Castiel can further see the emblem sewn onto their right breasts. It's the house of a noble – he's not sure which one, although it’s most certainly real – but what he is sure of is that it belongs to a noble family in Anathee, the capital of Torrin.  
  
The carriage comes to a halt at the end of the bridge. The men in front discuss something quietly before pulling the reins and veering the horses to the left, avoiding the main street into the town. Castiel pushes himself off the wall of the inn – travellers and stable boys forgotten – and with his hands on the hilt of his swords, he follows.

Keeping to the shadows, Castiel patiently waits as the carriage makes its way through the backstreets – even those being crowded with people on a night like tonight. But eventually, the carriage halts again – this one final – and the two men in the front step down onto the cobbled street.

One knocks on the door and after a moment, five more guards step out, dressed all the same; dark leather jerkins worn over black long-sleeved doublets – the emblem sewn into the right breast in silver thread – tall black boots and black breeches accompanied by a rapier belt, a sword hanging down on their preferred side. One, however, carries a chest. A chest that from where Castiel is standing looks as though it's been replicated from the carriage itself; rich, lacquered wood with a silver lock. At the end of the night, it doesn't matter what's in there. Either way, whatever it is, it equals coin. Lots of coin. And this is exactly what Castiel needs.

The guard with the chest gestures towards the others, handing out directions. He must have been assigned leader for this job. A moment later, five of them turn and follow the leader down the closest alleyway. One guard stays beside the carriage. He sweeps his gaze across the area, eyes flicking in Castiel's direction for only a moment before flicking away.  
  
Castiel moves. He retraces his steps, ducking into the alleyway behind him. It's easy enough to find a few wooden boxes stacked high enough underneath a ledge. He swiftly climbs and pulls himself over and onto the slanted roof. Light on his feet, he dashes up the tiled roof and slides his way down to the edge on the other side. Looking down, he finds himself watching the six guards still walking down the long and curving alleyway. He knows we’re they’re going now and therefore knows what’s in that chest. Jewels.

Castiel looks back down to the guard waiting by the carriage. He's on the other side of it now, looking in the opposite direction. Castiel takes a few steps backward, up the slanted roof and with a few steps forward, launches himself across the alleyway. He lands quietly, bending his knees to cushion the fall. The roof is flat, thankfully and as he looks to his right, so is the next.  
  
He doesn't waste a moment before taking off down the roofs above the alleyway, the jumps between each building anywhere from a yard to just an inch. He reaches the last building at the end of the alleyway in seconds, just in time to perch himself up on the ledge and watch as two guards – the leader still holding the chest and another – enter the side door of the building. The leftover four guards take positions beneath him, two on either side of the door. He crouches down behind the ledge. This might take a while and the hubbub of the main street offers itself as a welcome distraction.

The half-moon helps the poor-quality lanterns light up the streets of Kalapell, the town buzzing with the sound of people going about their nights below. Men flood to the brothels and musicians take to the streets to reel in their pay as drunks stumble out of taverns, slurring profanities, their night already over before it even begun. Castiel watches one burly man, his hands still clenched as if wrapped around a glass, ungracefully collapse onto three bags of grain and subsequently knock over the wooden barrels holding – what Castiel can see written on the side – cheap wine imported from Donner’s Bay.  
  
Despite the rowdy voices of men seeping through the walls of wooden inns, Castiel can still hear the loud clanking of coins hitting the bottom of empty wells and the hooves of horses and wooden wheels bumping against the cobblestoned floor of the street a few houses down.  
  
It does help that there’s little wind tonight, not that it would affect him from where he crouches in the shadows of the old, weathered jewellery shop’s rooftop. Shouts erupt from across the street, and Castiel sweeps his eyes over to find another man, donning a previously white apron – now covered in grubby fingerprint stains and spilt liquids – standing next to the tipped over wine barrels. He’s waving his hands frantically towards the burly man from before, however, he’s not receiving much response. Castiel regards the scene with indifference and eventually drags his eyes away.  
  
It’s an ordinary night made unordinary by the silver shine of a noble emblem adorning seven guards’ stark black uniforms, although no one but Castiel seems to have noticed. It puzzles him as to why these guards would be sent all the way to Kalapell to collect or repair jewellery instead of taking the short trip into Anathee, the richest city in all of Torrin, where there is highly likely to be the finest diamonds in all of the country. Unless of course, they’re not buying or repairing jewels. It’s not uncommon – these back-door dealings with the riches. The jeweller inside could be doing anything from trading them something not to be sold in the sunlight to selling secrets of rebellious villagers or wrongdoings against the king. Bringing a chest with jewels to a jeweller’s shop could be merely something to blend in.  
  
In the end, it doesn’t matter why they’re here. A chance has arisen and Castiel will take it.

He stays crouched in the shadows of the shop's roof for a while – twenty-three minutes passing with no movement from the guards. He observes all of his surroundings five times over, especially the four guards that are stationed below. They all have the same sword sheathed by their hips – one – left handed – and the rest – right handed. They all have their hands clasped behind their backs, postures straight, although one can't seem to stand still. Nervous. Must be new.  
  
The new one and left handed one are positioned to the left of the door. The other two – to the right. If Castiel jumps down on the guards to the right of the door, the left handed will have to unsheathe his sword in the opposite direction of where Castiel will be and the new one, well, he can be handled fine. Then it just leaves the two that went inside. Castiel assumes they will lead first and let the other guards follow. Then if he finishes the guards – he can take down the last two, grab the chest and head towards the main street. It should all be over in under two minutes.  
  
Plan fully in motion, Castiel finds himself listening to the horrendous and repetitive sounds coming from a street musician's poorly designed instrument. There is certainly no clanking of coins coming from that man’s direction.

He finally hears a faint shuffle and raised voices from inside the shop. He silently reaches towards his hips and grabs the handles of his own two swords and pulls them out of their sheathes. He rests the side of his hands on the edge of the roof, clutching his swords tight. The door clicks and is pulled inwards, the two guards exiting out of the shop, the same old, wooden, jewellery chest still in the hands of the leader. They don’t say a word to the other four, just continue to walk past them back down the alleyway.  
  
Castiel stands as straight as a board and with one small intake of breath, steps off the roof. Since it’s not a long drop, he falls perfectly, one foot each landing on the backs of the guards to the right, just as they're about to walk off. They both crumple into the pavement with a thud and a grunt, disoriented and in severe pain but not dead – saved by their own hands and Castiel cushioning his own landing by tucking and rolling back onto his feet. Consciousness may abandon them soon, however.  
  
By the time the guards have even noticed, Castiel is in front of them, both swords held in the air. His calculation is correct. The left-handed guard unsheathes his sword in the direction away from Castiel but as soon as the tip leaves the sheath Castiel has delivered a blow to his chest, successfully winding him and another blow to his chin with the handles of his swords. The guard stumbles and slumps against the wall.  
  
Another correct calculation. The fourth guard is new. His fingers tremble around his weapon and the look of fear in his eyes is hardly contained. Castiel smirks and the guard stumbles back slightly. Castiel dives in – striking his weak side with the handle of one sword and blocking the flailing swing of the guard’s sword with the other. He falls backwards but before he’s halfway to the ground Castiel delivers another blow across his face, blood spewing out from his mouth. A dark patch forms across the new guard's pants. Castiel scrunches his nose up. He must look menacing tonight.  
  
A moment later, another guard is charging him – one of the guards from inside the shop. Castiel doesn’t have to do much. He just raises his swords and at the last second ducks and swings his left arm forward colliding with the guard’s stomach and causing him to bend nearly in half before he sprawls back on the alley floor. A simple knock to the head by the butt of one of Castiel’s sword and the guard is knocked unconscious.  
  
The last guard is standing at the end of the alleyway, one sword in hand, the wooden chest tucked under the other. His face contorts from a snarl to a smirk as if he knows he’s already won.  
  
Castiel rolls his eyes, before sheathing his left sword and striding off down towards the guard.  
  
He only has to deflect once, before he uses his own sword to twist the guard’s and knock it out of his hand. A punch is quickly thrown towards him but he’s quicker in moving his head back, watching as it flies past before he grabs it and twists it harshly, hearing an audible cracking noise.  
  
The guard screams – a nasal, disgusting sound – dropping the wooden chest as he clutches his hand to his chest. Castiel takes no time in sheathing his second sword, swooping down to snatch up the chest and taking off into the main street.

He hears a shout behind him but doesn't look back. The leader must have gotten back up but there's no way he can outrun Castiel. He zigzags in and out of the crowd, a few more cries and screams erupting from the people as he flies by. He pumps his legs faster, leaping over a few crates sitting on the street outside an inn before taking a harsh turn down into another alleyway. He's halfway down when he hears footsteps behind him.  
  
He takes one quick look over his shoulder to see two of the guards – the leader and another – still chasing after him. Castiel swears under his breath and looks back around to the front.

He attempts to skid to a halt when he does but he's too slow and ends up barrelling head first into the butt of a sword. The alleyway goes dark.

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel's eyes flutter open to hot breath on his face and wetness on his cheek. He attempts to sit up but finds himself hitting his head on a wooden plank. When he reaches up to touch it, he sees the shackles on his hands. He kicks his legs. Shackles on them too. He blinks his eyes a few times to get used to the light and finally observes his surroundings. A pig stares back at him. A large, dirty pig. It's quite possibly the last thing he expected to see. Castiel cranes his neck to find two more pigs behind that one. No wonder it smells like piss and shit. 

They're all cramped into a wooden crate, a carriage pulling them along – the wheels bouncing on the uneven road and sending shots of pain up Castiel's entire body. The last time he saw the carriage it didn’t have a crate attached to it, although, looking through the slits in the wood he can tell it’s still the same one that pulled into Kalapell. He sighs. They must have stopped outside the town to fetch the animals before heading off again.   
  
His head's still fuzzy and the light still seems too bright but eventually it clears up and he looks out through the side of the crate to see where he is. The lavish buildings and well-dressed women and men are distinctive.

They're in Anathee, capital of Torrin. He suddenly remembers all in incredibly vivid detail what had happened the last time he was conscious and how the last thing he saw was a butt of a sword. It's only then, that he feels the throbbing pain of his head. He reaches up with shackled hands and touches it. There's flaky, dried blood all down his forehead and a serious lump at the edge of his hairline. The blood is dry. He lets out a deep breath. Just by the feel, however, he can tell he'll be fine even without healing. It hurts his head to try but he can’t do much anyways since it’s visible. 

This certainly wasn't part of his plan. But he supposes it doesn't matter now anyway.   
  
Castiel catches a few strange looks from the people milling around in the streets. He huffs, shifting around until he can find a comfortable position. Unfortunately for him, there isn't one and he settles for lying on his back. His swords and sheathes are gone. That's not a surprise. He still hopes that the guards kept them and didn't just leave them behind. It’s stupid of him to be worrying about that now but he can't help himself.  
  
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. At least, the road seems to have evened out. He knows he'll have bruises all over his body after this – those he can heal. A hot tongue on his face has his eyes flying open again. Castiel huffs, pushing the pig's head away and wiping the slime away with the back of his hand but it persists, pushing back and its acrid breath makes Castiel want to gag. Although, he supposes he should let it have at him, licking away in all of its glory, as it’ll soon be fattened up and cut to pieces.

Castiel frowns at his own line of thought and decides then that he will definitely let the beautiful creature have at him. He even moves his hands as best he can in the shackles to scratch it behind the ear. His mind slowly drifts away from the worries of what will come next.

The cart bumbles along for hours and its midday by the time the carriage begins to slow down. Castiel looks out through the slits in the wood and his heartbeat quickens. The carriage is winding its way up towards the unmistakable outer wall of the royal castle of Torrin.

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and attempts to slow down his heart.

The wooden cart halts and he opens them again. One of the guards, standing by the outer wall immediately makes their way towards the wooden cart, another going for the carriage.

The guard walking towards the cart, squints his eyes and meets Castiel’s. “Nicolaus!” he shouts, turning on his heel and walking over to the carriage and out of hearing range. The guard that steps down to talk is the one who was the leader. He’s tied a piece of cloth around his wrist and up around his neck to create a makeshift cast. He must be Nicolaus. The guard gestures towards Castiel but Nicolaus interrupts him.

Castiel shuffles the tiniest bit further up the cart and strains his ears.

“…he was caught attempting to…” Nicolaus’ voice goes quieter and Castiel slumps. The dull throb in his head aches more now. He hears footsteps approach, not bothering to twist his body to look again, and suddenly there’s a banging on the side of the crate. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away, his head throbbing at the loud noise.

“Hey! Eyes up here!” the guard spits, banging on the crate again with his fist. Castiel clenches his jaw and meets the guard’s eye. He can already feel his self-restraint slipping. “Well, would you look at that. Rolling around with the pigs where you truly belong.” He smiles at his own joke before leaning further forward. “The Crown Prince will want to see the scum who tried to steal royal jewels.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow at that. The guards – royal guards – seemed to be smart before, wearing noble guard’s clothes and emblems to not attract too much attention, but who in Leuric’s name would think it’s a good idea to transport royal jewels all the way to Kalapell? Presuming they wanted to keep the jewels in the first place. It is most likely now that they did not. In the end, however, Castiel was the only one who seemed to notice the guards in the town. No one else spared them or the lacquered chest they were carrying a single glance.

The guard bangs on the crate again. “You even listenin’ to me, thief? The Crown Prince will be serving out your punishment. You got that?”

Castiel nods slowly, not giving the guard the satisfaction of a response. The guard shakes his head and mumbles a few curses before walking off. “All clear!” he yells, and a second later, the grating sound of large wooden doors are opening.

Castiel’s sure this sort of thing happens often. Not too often. But often enough that taking a prisoner into the castle is not something these guards are strangers to. It wouldn’t be anything of a major concern.

But today is different, without them even knowing it.

It’s known throughout the country – throughout the continent – that no angel has ever slipped through these walls. No angel has even stepped into the castle for ten years. It’s said that the last to do it was the one who took the queen from her private chambers, like a leaf in the wind, in and out without anyone’s notice except for Queen Mary’s personal guard who was found lying dead on the floor by an open window. It’s a record that the royal guard’s and the royals themselves hold high.

But as the wooden cart is pulled through the doors of the outer wall, that record is broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed! Chapters will be posted every Saturday ~8/9pm AEST time. 
> 
> As I said above, there will be a few small POV's from original characters in this story but this will be Nicolaus' first and last one. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
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	2. Chapter 2

Inside the walls the land is beautiful. More beautiful than anything Castiel has seen in a long time for the grass stretches on for hundreds of yards, merging into the hills that roam as far as his eyes can see. It’s a lovely day too. The sun is out and the snow, it appears, has been kept at bay as the ground is free of it.

Longing tugs at his heart but he pushes it away.

The long, dirt path winds up towards the black gates surrounding the castle but a gathering of people off to the side catch Castiel’s eye and when the carriage veers towards them, he knows they’re not going to the castle. At least not yet.

As they move closer, he comprehends that they are all guards. There must be a hundred of them, all standing around what looks like a ring. The horses are pulled just a few yards short of the ring and Castiel watches as their heads turn one by one. Two guards – including Nicolaus – hop down from the front of the carriage and the other five make their way out from inside of it. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees a figure approaching the carriage. It’s easy enough to make out who it is from the two thick golden bands that wrap around his left bicep.

The Crown Prince. Dean Winchester.

It’s difficult to memorise his features from a distance and with a throbbing skull impeding his eyesight from being at its best but he is able to make out a few things. The prince is tall, a little taller than himself he presumes, has light brown hair and a sharp jaw. A handsome young man.

Unexpectedly, the prince gestures towards the cart and a few guards start to make their way over to him. Nicolaus looks smug where he stands next to the him. The guards round to the back of the cart, pulling out a set of keys and unlocking it. Then hands are taking a hold of his shackled feet and he’s being pulled out. He lands heavily on the unforgiving ground, arching his back and tucking his head instinctually to lessen the pain that blossoms through his already bruised body. Not that it helps all that much.

Rough hands pull him up by the arms and with his knees and feet dragging along the ground, he’s taken to the prince. He only looks up to meet the prince’s eyes for a moment before he’s shoved forward hard into the dirt, his shackled hands only just there in time to stop himself from falling flat on his face. The prince’s boots stand unmoving in front of his eyes.

There’s a silence all around him and Castiel doesn’t have to look up to know that all of the other guards surrounding the ring have stopped to watch him. Castiel bites his lip before slowly pushing himself back up until he’s kneeling. He holds his hands loosely in his lap and meets the prince’s eyes properly this time.

His eyes are narrowed but there’s a hint of amusement there too. They stare for a moment, Castiel unwilling to avert his eyes as he believes most prisoners probably do.

A challenging smile appears on the prince’s face. “So, I hear you’re a fighter. That right?”

Castiel keeps his mouth in a tight line. A leather boot kicks him roughly in the side of the leg. He winces faintly before schooling his features. “Answer him,” a guard seethes.

Castiel sighs. “I suppose so,” he says, earning himself another kick to the leg. Castiel restrains the urge to jump up and clock the guard in the face – taking a deep breath instead.

“You are speaking to the Crown Prince. Address him that way.” The prince’s eyes haven’t strayed from him once, although, the challenging smile has disappeared.

“I suppose so, Your Highness,” Castiel says, and tries his best to keep any mocking tone out of his voice. The prince stares at him for a few moments, no one saying anything, and Castiel stares straight back.

And then, “Name?”

Castiel straightens his back and lifts his chin. “Castiel.” The prince nods, his hands unclasping from behind his back and slowly he’s crouching down in front of him until they’re exactly eye level.

“Well, Castiel,” he starts, the name curling off his tongue with ease. “It’s your lucky day.” He pauses, his eyes giving Castiel a once over. “I want to see if you are as good as they say you are. There aren’t many men who can take down one of my guards, let alone six. A few of which, are some of my best men.”

Castiel’s lips quirk up into somewhat of a cruel smile. “I’d be concerned on your part if that’s the case.” The prince’s eyes darken before Castiel’s head is being knocked forward by the force of rough palm to the back of his head. He knows he shouldn’t have said it but his impulsiveness got the better of him.

“I’d watch your—” At the raising of the prince’s hand, the guard behind him shuts his mouth.

“Take him to the ring. Give him a wooden sword and remove the shackles from his feet,” the prince commands, standing from his crouched position and walking over to the ring without a backwards glance. All of the guards surrounding the ring suddenly turn their own backs, chattering already underway.

Castiel hears a key jangling behind him and the shackles are removed from his ankles. He doesn’t have time to stretch himself out before he’s being lifted to his feet and pushed roughly toward the ring.

Guards part when he reaches it. It’s not much of a ring – just a few posts stuck into the ground to make a circle with a loose rope curving all the way around. One guard lifts the rope and Castiel bends down to step under it.

A man is already standing opposite him. He holds a wooden sword in his right hand and holds out another wooden sword in his left. Castiel steps forward and takes it from the man’s hand, clutching it in his two shackled one’s. The man steps back and his face contains thinly veiled arrogance. Castiel offers him a smile.

He can feel the gazes of all the men around him but one stands out. The prince, arms crossed and posture straight, stands to the side of him. Castiel waits for a signal. But the prince doesn’t move nor say anything.

Castiel catches the mouth of the man standing beside the prince lifting up, followed by his gruff voice announcing, “Begin.”

The guard in front of him only hesitates for a moment before stepping forward with a small jab. Castiel swiftly moves back, light on his feet. The guard narrows his eyes before trying again, harder this time. Castiel jumps backwards again, landing gently on his toes. The guard’s chest visibly rises and falls and a second later he lurches forward into Castiel’s space, raising his sword and swinging it down. Castiel darts to the side, his own sword coming down hard on the man’s wrists, causing him to drop his sword to the ground. The guard’s momentum carries him a few steps forward right into where Castiel’s sword waits, hitting him squarely in the chest. His knees crumple, falling down into the brown grass.

A few whispers trade back and forth between the surrounding men, although when Castiel flicks his eyes momentarily over to the prince, his mouth is a thin line. The sturdy man beside him with black hair that curls behind his ears, Castiel finally notices, wears three silver bands around his left bicep. The Captain of the Guard. The prince finally tilts his head slightly towards the captain and mutters something inaudible.

The captain nods. “Emery. Grab a sword.” Castiel’s eyes follow the captain’s and land on the guard that couldn’t look more out of place in the Winchester castle. For Emery has brown skin. Castiel wouldn’t be surprised to hear if he was the only guard without a pure Torric bloodline in the entire castle. Torrics and their vile biases. Not only against Castiel’s own kind but against every other kind that isn’t precisely their 'own'. At least with the angels he can understand where the fear and prejudice of them originally came from. Angels only became mortal humans after falling from the sky hundreds of years ago after all and with wings protruding from their backs – he can imagine why they would think of them as not human. As other. But hundreds of years and their biases haven’t changed. And not because the angels or any other culture have given them a reason not to.

Even as Emery grabs a sword from a barrel sitting at the opposite end of the ring and steps under the rope, there are sideways glances from the other men. Fools.

The guard already in the circle finally stands again, still shaking out his hands as he picks his sword back up from the ground. The two of them stand side by side. The arrogance from the guard’s face is gone, replaced this time by thinly veiled embarrassment. Castiel almost feels sorry for him.

On the other hand, there’s no hint of arrogance on Emery’s face. His face only reveals focus. And at the sound of the captain’s voice telling them to begin, a small nod. Castiel nods back just as the other guard raises his sword. He swings it in a heavy arc and Castiel steps aside and away from Emery on the other side, turning his body to create the smallest target possible. The guard heaves his sword again in a diagonal arc upwards, Castiel bending to duck before stepping forward into the guard’s space and with his own sword thrust across the man’s chest, forcing him down and onto his back again. Legs bent in a crouch, Castiel turns, sword raised just in time to parry a blow from Emery.

Castiel follows it up with a jab of his sword forward making Emery retreat a yard or so. Castiel takes the advantage to rise from his crouched position, taking a few steps sideways and away from the grounded guard. He deflects the next blow – and the next. Mumbling arises from the onlooking guards.

Castiel takes a deep breath before swinging his sword in a diagonal arc upwards – too low for Emery to duck – and dashes forward as Emery’s sword comes down on top of it, pushing his sword down. As it goes, Castiel twists his wrists, his sword lifting upwards hilt first and he comes to a halt, the edge of his sword resting on Emery’s neck, his own face inches away as Emery’s sword points to the ground, carried by its own force.

Castiel steps back and Emery nods again, accepting his humble defeat. Castiel smiles, tilting his head down before turning once again to the prince and the captain. They’re already speaking in hushed tones. The crowd, however, stands in almost silence bar the few who whisper to each other.

The captain eventually breaks away from the prince, gesturing towards the guards who escorted Castiel to the ring, including Nicolaus, who stands with the hint of a scowl. The captain hands out orders to each and soon, two are entering the ring and approaching Castiel with shackles in hands. He doesn’t resist, allowing them to chain his ankles once more. He must have impressed them.

His sword is taken from his hands and he’s being pushed once again out of the ring and towards the carriage that waits exactly where they left it. Castiel pauses when they push him towards the open door of the crate. Do they really expect him to crawl on in there again?

He doesn’t exactly get the option, however, when one of the guards whacks him over the head and manhandles him down until he’s bent low enough to crawl. He uses the side of the crate to pull himself in, lying down next to the same pig as the guards close the door and chain it up. Castiel huffs, lying there on his back, the rotten smell filling his nostrils once more.

He looks out through the slits in the wood to see the prince still talking to the captain. The prince never meets his eyes, although he does look in the crates direction once or twice. Before Castiel can even attempt to listen, the crate lurches forward along the path.

It’s hard to see a lot of detail through the slits in the crate but he is able to take in most of it. The gate surrounding the castle is made of metal, painted over in black. It’s tall, possibly twelve feet high with pointed tips protruding from the top. They don’t pause at the gates, them already being open wide for the horses to pull them through. Castiel doesn’t get to see much of the front gardens, only a glimpse as they veer to the right, and loop a long way around to the side of the castle, hitting his head on the floor when they abruptly stop. He waits rather impatiently as the two guards who locked him in, unlock the crate and pull him out again by his feet. Castiel’s prepared this time although it still doesn’t do much. He’s pulled up with an ache in his back and in his head even worse than before. More healing to do.

A black bag is quickly pulled over his head and any other chances to glimpse the landscape surrounding the castle or the castle itself slip away. With a hand from each guard clenched tight on either shoulder, Castiel is pushed forward. Only a dozen or so steps are taken before they stop, hands tight on Castiel’s shoulder as he listens to what sounds like a key and a lock, followed by the grinding sound of a door on stone being opened.

“Duck,” the guard to his left says, a hand on the back of his head shoving it forward for him anyway. Upon entering, all the light from the midday sun disappears and his vision within the bag, if anything, becomes darker. Another dozen or so steps and they stop again. Another door. “Steps,” the guard to his left grunts again, and Castiel slowly makes his first step down, struggling to look down through the bottom of the black bag. The stairs head straight down for not too long when the guard’s behind him stop and turn him until he’s facing the other way and with another warning, push him down the next set of stairs. Castiel can tell they’re nearly to their destination when he starts to hear raucous voices and a smell even worse than the one in the crate reaches his nostrils.

This time, he really might throw up. The sound of another door, sliding heavily open only makes it worse. The stench is toxic and the rattle of chains and yelling from either side of Castiel as he walks through the door and down a hallway is nearly deafening. Some words from a guard and the sound of metal on metal has the shouting ease down to a manageable level. Castiel turns two corners before he’s finally stopped and the black bag is taken off his head.

He blinks in the darkness, waiting a moment before he regains his vision. The guard in front of him is opening an empty barred cell right beside another that is filled with five other men who curse and slur profanities. Castiel pays them no mind, looking around to see that the last three cells past Castiel’s are also empty. They must take in quite a few prisoners. He wonders what most of them have done. He wonders if most of them deserve to be here. A quick look in their direction and he thinks that perhaps they do.

The cell door opens and Castiel’s escorted inside. It’s quite large just for one person, two wooden buckets sitting in one of the corners of the cell and at the back more sets of chains attached to the wall. A guard grabs the end of one and Castiel reflexively flinches back when the guard attempts to clasp it around his neck. A few of the prisoners in the next cell laugh.

“Don’t make this harder than it should be,” a guard behind him says and suddenly there is a hand gripping the back of his neck and forcing him forward. He clenches his jaw and doesn’t resist this time when the guard locks the chain around his neck. The chain isn’t too long, only allowing him a few feet of space to move in either direction. He’s roughly turned around and the shackles on his feet are removed. Castiel raises his shackled hands but the guard with the key only laughs.

“Not you,” he says, and then all of the guards accompanying him, turn and head out into the hall, locking his cell door behind him without a word. He can’t even hear their receding footsteps over the sounds of the prisoners.

Castiel looks over his cell again for a moment. The stone in some places look stained but they’re too old to tell from what. There’s definitely no windows – they’re too far underground for that – but there are a few drains scattered around in the passage. Castiel nudges the two buckets further aside with the outside of his boot and finds a clean place – or the cleanest place he can find – and sits down against the wall.

He crosses his legs underneath him and lets his hands lie limply in his lap. His eyes softly close and he chooses to focus on the feeling of his feet, where they rest on the cold, stone floor. Anything to keep him from focusing on the shouts of the prisoners and the smell of the piss, shit, blood and whatever else hangs in the air – the pain that seems to finds its way into every nook and cranny of his body, his head throbbing too hard for him to focus on healing just yet – and the fact that he’s sitting in the dungeon of the royal castle of Torrin. The castle, in which also sits a king. The same one who started a war ten years ago to wipe out Castiel’s entire species – the angels.

The king sits above in the castle somewhere. Castiel knows it. He can feel it.

And so, he breathes and focuses of the feeling of his feet on the cold, stone floor.

Anything to keep him from focusing on the fear that wades just below the surface.

 

______________________________________

 

“You’ve always been a smart one, Dean. In fact, you’re one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever met in my life. But right now, you’re just being plain stupid,” Dimarus says, shaking his head in Dean’s direction from where he sits. Dean crosses his arms, defiant, and takes a step towards Dimarus’ desk.

“You heard what he did to our men, didn’t you? He took six men down all at once-–”

“Exactly!” Dimarus says, throwing his hands in the air. “He’s dangerous.” Dimarus’ eyes are hard and his hands are clenched where they rest on the desk.

“You think I don’t know that?” Dean asks, incredulous. “I’m not stupid. I know he’s dangerous and I know this is a risk.” He pauses, stepping forward to rest his palms on the desk. “But he took down six men… and the worst he did was give Nicolaus a sprained wrist.” Dimarus’ eyes lose some of their hardness. “Why would he bother leaving them alive at all? Why not just kill them? He’s not a murderer, Dimarus. He’s a thief.”

The way Castiel moved in the ring earlier is imprinted in his mind. Dean will almost go as far as to call it graceful.

“What would your father say?” Dimarus asks, and Dean feels a surge of frustration shoot through him.

“My _father_ gave this decision to me. And I will take all responsibility for it.” Dean can tell, however, that Dimarus isn’t sold.

“And what about your captain?” All of the frustration that was only a moment ago churning inside of him, disappears.

“Dimarus, you know how much I want to fight. We’ll never see another man like him in years, if ever. You and I both know that. And what good is Nicolaus now? He was supposed to be the best and this man can take him and five others down within seconds. What good can he do now with a sprained wrist?”

“He worked hard,” Dimarus says, and Dean shakes his head.

“And this man barely worked up a sweat to take on those men in the ring. And, in truth, Nicolaus wasn’t exactly the greatest conversationalist.”

“That was never his job.” Dean glares. Dimarus won’t understand. His personal guard is supposed to be by his side through practically everything. He’s not sure how long Nicolaus would’ve lasted anyway. Heymon, his last personal guard, was at least someone he could talk to. They ended up becoming quite good friends actually and the old man always had some good advice tucked away for every occasion.

“Look. Let me do this and if it doesn’t work out, if he becomes a threat to me, then Nicolaus can come back. And I’ll take all of the precautions, of course. I am one of the most intelligent men you’ve ever met after all.”

Dean catches the quirk of the captain’s lips and knows he’s won. “Fine. But you won’t just take precautions. You’ll double them. Triple them. And you’ll report to me for the first few days with every single detail of what he’s been up to. Deal?”

Dean smiles and prays to Leuric and Patrus that this works out. “Deal.”

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel doesn’t notice he’s dozing off until he feels fingers wrap around his arm. He jerks away, instantly up on his feet, eyes wild as they search for the intruder. What he finds is a prisoner from the other cell, their arm reaching through one of the many gaps in the bars.

Castiel closes his eyes to calm the erratic beating of his heart. He moves half a yard to the side and slides back down the wall to the floor, crossing his legs underneath him.

The man laughs. “Oh, c’mon, now. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” A few of the other prisoners begin to laugh. Castiel focuses on his breathing now – through his mouth to reduce the disgusting smell of the dungeon. In his peripheral vision, he can see the man reach out further again, straining against the bars. “Come now, sweet boy.” Castiel’s toes clench inside his boots at the sound of that name in the prisoner’s mouth. “We haven’t had one like you in a while. I’m sure you’d feel just like one of those ladies in the city’s broth–”

Castiel’s hand shoots out to grab the man’s own, bending the fingers backwards until he hears an audible pop. The prisoner screams, a guttural sound that reverberates off the walls and pulls his arm back through the gap as soon as Castiel lets go to hold his hand close to his chest. Two of the other prisoners in the cell stand and rush over to his side of the cell as the man swears and screams at Castiel. All three men trade back and forth about the injury, all the while cursing him. He picks up that the name of the man still wailing is Val but he doesn’t catch the other two.

Castiel feigns nonchalance and after a little while, and about one hundred different insults and swears, the prisoners move to the other side of their own cell and leave Castiel alone. Castiel’s own hands tremor every once in a while, although he tries not to notice. But how could he not? Michael never prepared him for this. Castiel certainly never thought about it. An ignorance on both parts.

And now his hands tremble. He presses them further into his lap, making sure that no one can possibly see and turns his concentration to slowing the pounding of his heart in his chest.

 

______________________________________

 

He doesn’t know what time it is or how long has passed but he is woken by the shouts of prisoners echoing off the walls. He’s not sure how he managed to slip into unconsciousness – not with his senses hyper aware to every single movement around him after the incident with Val. In the end, it must have been his exhaustion that won him over.

The first thing he notices is that his feet and legs are numb – the price to pay for trying to sleep sitting – and the second is how parched he is. His throat is dry and sore, not that this is a new experience but it’s one perhaps he hasn’t experienced in a while. He tries to count back to the last time he had some water and finds that there’s no use.

He doesn’t know how long he was out in the back of the wooden crate – the average time travelling by carriage from Kalapell to Anathee is roughly one day, but he already knows they stopped once outside of Kalapell for the pigs and the crate. There is no telling how many other times they may have stopped, although he couldn’t have been knocked out for too long. And of course, he doesn’t know how much time has passed since he was thrown down here.

The sound of footsteps halt his thoughts and Castiel turns his head to see four guards round the corner and walk down the barely lit passage to stop in front of Castiel’s cell. He recognises Nicolaus first, his eyes feral and with the scowl Castiel is becoming so accustomed to. He recognises another guard as the one who chained the shackle around his neck. The others he doesn’t know, although look pleased with themselves and he doesn’t have to guess to understand what is going to happen.

The guards enter his cell, chain his feet once again and unchain the shackle around his neck. They drag him out into the passage and down towards another wooden door with reinforced steel and ominous looking stains on it. The prisoners behind him cheer and shout – knowing themselves what’s about to happen too.

Castiel is not afraid of a lot of things and that’s only because he’s been prepared his entire life for these things. The confrontation with Val still gives him a chill up his spine and he would admit that he _is_ afraid of what might have happened if he wasn’t protected by bars and his own abilities.

But a beating isn’t something he’s afraid of. It’s something he used to be afraid of. But that fear slowly overtime dissipated and a beating became just another something he had to get through.

Castiel’s pushed to his knees in a small room. A quick look around shows it’s quite bare besides a chair sitting in the corner along with a bucket, dirty rag and two chains hammered into stone on either side of the room. With a sword at his neck, the shackles from his wrists are removed, a small relief before his hands are pulled up one by one to each side to be shackled up again.

The heavy wooden door is shut behind the last guard, drowning out some of the noise from the prisoners.

The guard that he recognises steps in front of him, shaking his head. “Another lucky day for you, my friend. We could’ve had you strung up outside and whipped until your back was stained red but we got a ball tonight,” he says, gripping Castiel’s hair tightly and pulling at it until his neck is exposed. He grits his teeth in pain as he feels the cut on his forehead split open. His eyes, however, don’t waver from the guard’s. “Can’t have you scaring off all the ladies, can we?”

Another guard snickers from where they’re standing at the edge of the room.

“Unfortunately, your punishment for attempting to steal royal jewels had to be moved in here. Sad, really. I just know you would’ve given us a hell of a show.” The guard’s eyes are alight, waiting. Baiting. Castiel stays silent, although it nearly works. He’s never been one for restraint. Let alone for men like this. The guard smiles, pulling on his hair once before letting it go and stepping back. He sweeps his eyes over the other guards and gestures his hand towards Castiel. “Well?”

Nicolaus steps forward and Castiel’s eyes glance down to the fresh bandage on his right wrist. Nicolaus pauses, following Castiel’s eyes. “Oh, you remember doing that, do you?” Castiel pre-empts the kick but not much can be done. His hands clutch at the chains as he folds, a grunt spilling from his lips. “I’d hoped you did.” Castiel meets Nicolaus’ eyes again, wide and full of resentment. “Because this may have cost me my entire life’s work. You may have cost me my entire life’s work.” The last few words are punctuated with another kick, this time to the side of his stomach.

The metal clink of the chains sound as Castiel – body tense and aching – pulls them tight again. Pain blossoms in his side. He has absolutely no clue as to what Nicolaus could be talking about. The damage isn’t permanent. Castiel knows that because he’s the one who delivered the damage. It should be sprained at most. Nicolaus kicks and punches – with his left hand, of course – all the while his face twists with anger and he growls and sneers. The other three guards watch on behind him, grim satisfaction on all of their faces.

He closes his eyes at some point during the beating and a familiar voice reaches his ears.

_“You can’t show any weakness, Castiel,” Michael says, grabbing Castiel’s face roughly between his fingers. The blindfold slips slightly at the back of Castiel’s small head. “And why is that?”_

_Castiel blinks away the tears that threaten to fall down his already tear streamed face. “Because our enemies can use our weaknesses to defeat us,” he answers, voice small._

_Michael doesn’t respond. Castiel tenses and waits, his wooden sword held out in front of him. He strains his ears to hear for anything – the crunch of feet on the snow, the flaps of Michael’s clothes bustling in the wind. He waits and he waits. And just as he’s taking a breath, Michael’s wooden sword comes down with a harsh crack at the back of his knees. Castiel cries out and crumples to the ground on all fours, the snow beginning to seep into his trousers. The tears do fall then and Castiel clenches all of his muscles in anticipation of another blow._

_Instead, he hears Michael round to the front and he pulls Castiel’s blindfold off, lifting Castiel back up by the chin. “Look at you, Castiel. What good can you do if you can’t take a beating?” He trembles beneath Michael’s cold fingers. “Out there – they will do so much worse.”_

_“I’m trying,” Castiel cries. “Please, Michael, I know I’m not strong like you, but I’m trying.”_

_Michael shakes his head. “Try harder,” he says and a moment before the wooden sword comes cracking down on his right shoulder, Castiel sees a grim satisfaction on his brother’s face._

_HIs arm buckles beneath him and he falls face first into the snow. It’s cold and hard and unforgiving. The crunch of--_

Castiel’s eyes fly open as his face whips back with the blow of a heavy fist and suddenly there’s shouting all around him – shouting too loud to come from the prisoners behind the door.

“...touch his face! It’s the captain’s orders, you fucking imbecile!”

“I didn’t know--”

“I told all of you just before we came down!” Castiel finally regains himself and looks to the guard he recognises gesturing wildly towards Nicolaus, who stands hunched and open mouthed. “It clearly didn’t get through your thick skull!”

“Salicar, I–”

“For God’s sake, Nicolaus, I don’t want to hear it. How many times do I have to save your ass? Escort yourself out and make sure no one hears of it. You better bloody hope it doesn’t leave a mark,” the guard – Salicar – shouts. Nicolaus’s jaw twitches and he glares once in Castiel’s direction before exiting out the door and closing it behind him.

Salicar runs a frustrated hand down over his face. “Someone give him a few more hits so we can get this over with.” A slight hesitation, but after a moment one guard steps forward and gives Castiel a few more blows to the stomach.

It’s enough, apparently, for he’s placed back into his normal shackles and escorted back to his cell. The prisoners cheer at the sight of him. Salicar locks him back up, chained by the neck and takes the shackles off his feet before closing the cell and leaving, the other guards trailing behind him.

Castiel hisses as he sits back down. It’s even more uncomfortable sitting now, with extra bruises littering his front. His body and mind are weary and he knows he needs to rest to recover his strength not only to heal but because he’s not sure what lies ahead. He needs to be prepared.

A small blessing comes in the form of breakfast. Castiel presumes then that it must have only been one night since he was thrown in. He listens to guards pushing a cart down the passage, the prisoners in the cell beside him, rising and standing at the back of their cell. Rounding the corner, four more guards stop quickly to place five small wooden bowls on the ground, through the bars of their cell, along with five wooden cups filled with water.

The guards don’t even bother looking in Castiel’s direction, just turning and pushing the cart back down the passage. He swallows, his throat scorched but when he looks over into the cup of a prisoner in the next cell as a small candle on the wall lights it up, he sees the murky, brown colour and thinks that perhaps not getting any was a blessing. However, no matter that the food looks like slop, Castiel still craves it. Even when he’s been starved, there’s always been a clean stream or river that he can drink from. But with food, he’s settled for worse.

Castiel swallows down some more saliva but it only seems to make it worse. He finds a bruise forming on the side of his stomach and presses down hard, the pain taking his mind away from his thirst. He wonders how long he can keep it up. Keep his mind distracted. He supposes it depends on the amount of pain he can source and considering the number of bruises and cuts that litter his body that he’s unable to heal as of now, it’ll probably be a little while.

 

______________________________________

 

The sudden hush of the prisoners around Castiel is the first thing that catches his attention in hours. He didn’t even stir when guards came to take the wooden bowls and cups from the prisoners not too long ago. Now he can hear boots on the dungeons stone floor but other than that, it is silent. A glance to the side shows the five prisoners beside him unmoving where they sit, heads down and one even looks like he has his hands clasped in front of him. Even Val looks fearful – not that Castiel has been paying him much attention, still trying to forget the feeling of revulsion that the man in question induced.

Castiel closes his own eyes, not giving whoever it is the satisfaction of him bowing his head. And when the keen sound of his cell being opened reaches his ears, he opens his eyes to five guards surrounding the Crown Prince. Castiel narrows his eyes, meeting the prince’s own. He stands still, posture straight with his hands clasped behind his back, watching as another few guards enter Castiel’s cell to get him out. A side glance to the prisoners show none of them daring to look his way.

He’s dragged out of his cell and shoved towards the same room he’d been taken to for his beating. Castiel wonders if this is another one. Does the Crown Prince want to personally beat him for attempting to steal royal jewels? He wonders how often the prince even visits the dungeons but by the reaction from the others, he’s sure it’s not too many.

He’s once again pushed to his knees as his wrists are restrained to the cuffs chained on either side of the wall. All six men enter, a guard closing the door shut as the prince walks to the back of the room, grabs the old, rickety chair and drags it to the front, placing it down back first in front of Castiel. He sits down, arms resting on the back of the chair and eyes him from head to toe. His eyes linger on the area of his face where Nicolaus’ punched him. He guesses that in the end it did leave a mark. Displeasure flicks over his face but there’s not hardness – whatever is coming for Nicolaus and his incompetence to follow a simple order is nothing harsh.

The air in the room is stifled. A guard scuffs his boots on the ground and it seems to echo off the walls. There are no shouts and cheers from prisoners beyond the heavy wooden door. Only silence.

“I heard you’re not afraid of beatings,” the prince says with a huff, as if unbelieving. “So, if I give you another one you probably won’t learn anything from it, is that right?” Dean’s voice is low and smooth, commanding and self-assured. Too self-assured for Castiel’s taste but the voice of a prince nonetheless.

He takes a moment before replying. “What kind of lesson were you trying to teach the first time?”

A guard shifts at Dean’s side but at the turn of Dean’s head, the guard stops. He turns back towards Castiel, head tilted to the side. “That perhaps you should fear me. That you should respect me.” Castiel stares back blankly. Dean’s eyes are dark in the dim light. “I can see that you don’t do either of those things. But we have time. Time to change that.”

Castiel feels himself growing impatient but he holds his tongue. He’s already strayed too far out of line. If he didn’t have such hatred simmering beneath the surface he may have already impressed Dean enough to get out of these dungeons.

He can see that Dean knows this too. He can see the impatience and little self-restraint Castiel possesses. The corner of his lips quirk up into a smug smile before falling away. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here. So, let’s get to it then. Why did you try to steal royal jewels?”

“I didn’t try to steal royal jewels. I tried to steal a chest made out of silver, guarded by men dressed as noble’s guards – a chest that looked as though it was carrying something worth more than just a few coins.”

Dean nods his head, eyes flashing with understanding. “Are you desperate for money or are you just a thief?”

Castiel takes a breath. “I was desperate.” Dean’s eyebrows raise.

“You don’t look like the desperate type.”

“What would you know of desperate?” Castiel bites his lips and nearly looks away as Dean’s eyes darken in the faint light of the lanterns. It’s not out of fear, however. More out of stupidity. If he can’t hold it together he can say goodbye to any life outside of these dungeons. Wouldn’t that be amusing.

He can see the guard’s stiffening beside Dean, wondering if they should be doing anything or just waiting. Their questions are answered when Dean continues on. “Where did you learn to fight?”

A small and brief wave of relief washes over Castiel, although, he tries not to show it. “My brother.”

“He was a good fighter?” Dean asks, and now he appears genuinely intrigued.

Castiel grinds his teeth. “One of the best. A true natural,” he responds, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“And you’re not?” Dean says, eyebrows raising.

Castiel feels his stomach twist. “Not exactly.”

“Why don’t you enlighten me?” Dean says, gesturing towards Castiel with his hand. Castiel lets out a frustrated sigh and his eyes flick down to the dirty floor, rehearsing the speech in his head for a moment before meeting Dean’s again. There’s no room for slip ups or suspicion. Nothing to tie him to the angels. Nothing to imply he is in angel, although that would be a stretch. Every angel has wings – or at least wings that can be seen. There’s nothing to indicate he is anything but human.

“He was a natural fighter since birth. I was not. He trained me for years to even come close to being as good as him. And it took years after that until I finally became better than him. I believe he was both proud and furious at the same time.” Believe? No, Castiel knows. He remembers the mixed look on Michael’s face as he’d started to win their fights in training.

“And what about the rest of your family?” Dean asks, and Castiel clenches his jaw and digs his fingernails into his palms.

“My parents were killed when I was young,” Castiel says, voice emotionless, betraying the feelings inside. Sympathy flashes in Dean’s eyes but it’s gone within a second. “There was a fire in our home.” A partial truth. It wasn’t their own home they were burnt in. Nor did the fire kill them. The fire was only an afterthought. Burning the bodies of all the angels seemed easier to the king’s men than burying them.

Castiel can suddenly feel the stark touch of dried blood on his face. But it’s not dry. It’s wet and it drips down his face, drowning his skin. His throat burns from screaming and from the inhaled smoke and ash. He claws at it, he claws at skin and feathers and now the blood is enveloping him, spilling into his open screaming mouth--

Castiel coughs, tilting his head forward to spit out whatever is stuck in his throat. A small drop of blood lands on the stones in front of him.

“For fuck’s sake, will someone get him some water,” Dean says, standing from his chair to glare at the guards. One guard quickly darts out of the room and another guard behind him mumbles something inaudible as Castiel continues to cough and splutter. “I didn’t order you to withhold anything. He hasn’t had anything for days. What is wrong with you people?”

Castiel’s not sure how long they wait. All he knows is that his throat is becoming dryer by the second until the guard returns with a cup and Castiel suddenly doesn’t care whether the water is murky or clear. As the guard touches it to his lips, he drinks and drinks and drinks until he’s downed it all. He splutters some more, coughing up some water he drank too quickly but the relief is immense.

He slumps in his chains, head down to try and breathe normally again. Dean sits back down on his chair, waiting until Castiel looks back up before speaking as though there was no pause in conversation. “And what of your brother?”

Castiel pauses for a moment. “He died not too long ago,” he says, and he can tell that Dean is turning all of this over in his head.

“And that’s why you’re desperate?” Dean asks, for the first time unsure of his words. Castiel doesn’t say anything, just stares back at him. Dean stands up from the chair and walks around to the front to lean back against it. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares down at Castiel. “And how do I know that any of what you told me is true?” Castiel’s taken aback by the question and struggles to keep his face straight. The prince isn’t as stupid as princes of this land should be. “How do I know that you’re not an assassin sent here to kill me or my father? Or my brother, for that matter?”

Castiel shrugs as best he can in his chains. “I suppose you can’t know.” Dean nods, eyes still searching as if he can see inside his soul.

“I suppose I can’t,” he says, his words drawn out. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips. “Well, Castiel, tomorrow you’ll be starting as my new personal guard,” Dean continues, nonchalantly as Castiel’s eyes widen. “…replacing my former whose wrist you sprained when you attempted to steal from him.”

“Personal guard?” Castiel scoffs. Maybe this prince isn’t as smart as he takes him for. One look at Dean and Castiel knows he doesn’t like that he’s spoken out of turn but how is he supposed to respond to something so nonsensical.

Dean takes a step forward and leans even further down towards Castiel’s face until they’re merely inches apart. “You know, you should be thanking me. Because what I’m offering you is something other prisoners only get in their dreams.” From the look in Dean’s eyes, this isn’t an offer. It’s not something Castiel can turn down. And if he does… he’s sure turning down the Crown Prince won’t get him any more ‘offers’. He’ll be left to rot or bleed dry on their whipping post. This may be the only way.

“So, how about we try that again? Tomorrow you’ll be starting as my new personal guard. How do you feel about that, Castiel?” Dean’s asks and Castiel wants to punch him in his arrogant face.

Instead, he swallows his pride. “Good, Your Highness.” Dean holds his eyes.

“If you were wondering, no, I don’t believe that you’re not afraid of a beating. Every man breaks sooner or later. And every man fears pain. So, you should show me some respect or I’ll get the guards to teach you another lesson.” If Castiel hadn’t seen his bright eyes out in the sun, he would’ve thought they were pure black with the way they darken. “Perhaps a more permanent one.”

Dean leaves without another word and the guards escort Castiel back into his cell. The dungeon remains silent and even long after the guards are gone, the prisoners only begin to talk in hushed voices.

Castiel raises his shackled hands to touch his forehead. The blood there is dry and peeling off. Not wet.

He can suddenly breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed! Chapters will be posted every Saturday ~8/9pm AEST time.
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	3. Chapter 3

Even with his mind-numbing exhaustion, Castiel barely sleeps overnight. He still doesn’t know the exact time but he gathers it’s early morning since the loud music and chatter from the ball died quite a number of hours ago. 

He didn’t think any sound could even reach the dungeons. He can’t imagine how deafening it must’ve been at the actual ball. It had gone on for long enough. 

Guards come for him just as the prisoners are being served breakfast. Castiel was fortunate enough to recieve some food and water for dinner last night. It was worse than it looked but he’d been too starved to care and it meant he was able to find enough strength to lightly heal some of the bruises littering his body. A small blessing. 

A black bag is pulled over his head once he is out of the cell and he’s lead swiftly through the passages of the dungeons, the prisoners back to their usual overwhelming noise as he heads up the few staircases. He’s halted at the top, Castiel having remembered how many stairs and twists and turns there were when he was sent down a few days ago, and a guard proceeds to tug off his boots, one by one. 

When he’s pushed forward again, his feet meet plush carpet. No wonder. He’s sure the king wouldn’t appreciate the filth clinging to Castiel’s boots from his travels staining his royal carpet. Even in the dungeons he could see the polished shine of the guard’s boots and especially the prince’s. 

They take him down some long hallways, winding and turning, until finally he hears the sound of a door opening and he steps into a hot room, steam curling around him. The black bag is pulled off his head and blinking a few times to recover his sight, Castiel sees a wooden tub in front of him, already filled with hot water. Beside it, there are a few wooden stools, one of which has some clothes lying on top. Four guards are already inside the room, standing patiently in the corner, their eyes pointedly looking straight ahead. The shackles on his feet and hands are taken off as the tip of a sharp sword jabs at his back. 

“Undress and get in the water. Don’t try anything or we’ll gut you here and now.” Castiel hesitates for a moment before turning his back and slowly starts to peel his dirty clothes away. He starts with his socks and moves on to his jacket, carefully undoing the laces at the top and – now loosened – pulls it over his head. He pauses for a long moment after that, chest clenching tight in unease before taking a deep breath and grabbing his thin white shirt by the collar to pull it off.

There’s only silence behind him but it doesn’t make him any less anxious. His shoulders stay tense as he moves on to his trousers and finally to his undergarments until he stands naked in the small bathing room. His clothes drop to the floor in a messy pile and Castiel carefully – back still towards the guards – steps into the warm tub, a sigh falling from his lips. In some places, his body stings but overall, it’s a relief. Castiel’s not sure he’s ever had a full bath with water as hot as this to bathe in. It’s something that for years, he only dreamed of. 

A knock on the door has Castiel craning his neck to look over his shoulder, watching as a guard opens it to let two maids in. They look small and frightened. Word must have gotten out about who he is and what he can do. But apparently, it’s not enough to keep them away. Although, he supposes they have no other choice.

As they move towards him Castiel pulls his knees up and hunches in on himself. “The prince ordered you and your wounds to be cleaned properly,” one of the guards says, but Castiel is barely listening, his eyes on the maids who each pull a stool over to either side of the tub. They have a bucket full of supplies – cloths, soaps and balms. One of the maids hesitantly reaches out to gently touch his wrist but he flinches away. 

When he finally drags his eyes up to meet her own they’re still frightened but there’s a softness to them now that she’s seen him up close. 

Slowly again, she reaches out and rests the pads of her fingers on his wrist. Castiel stares at where they touch – skin on skin. Her fingers curl around him just below where his skin is red and raw and with her other hand grabs a cloth from her basket. The press of the wet cloth stings but he doesn’t show any pain. 

The maid on the other side of him does the same. Castiel feels on edge, resisting every urge to flinch away. He just wants his clothes back. Only then, can he feel safe. 

But the maids are always soft – always gentle as they make their way up his arms and wash his chest and his back, wash his legs – which is only a little awkward for Castiel, although it seems that the maids have done this many times before – and finally wash his face and hair, all the while avoiding the scars that scatter his body. Even the small ones. The maid on his left, the one with kind eyes, pauses only for a moment on the long-jagged scar that travels the length of his inner forearm. Castiel’s thankful. He’s thankful for all of it.

Their touches – the gentleness of them – are foreign. No, not foreign. He still has vague memories of his mother’s touch. It’s never enough for him to release the tension in his body – he still feels like a wild animal ready to retract at any moment – but he’s completely clean by the end of it. At a guard’s insistence, he’s ordered out and quickly towels down before slipping on a new pair of undergarments from the clean pile. The maids gesture for him to sit down and they get to cleaning the cuts he has on his stomach and the one on his head with the balm from their baskets and he lets them even if he knows he’ll just heal them himself later. Well, at least the ones on his stomach. He can’t heal the cut visible on his head without someone noticing. It will have to do so by itself. After that’s done, they wrap a large bandage around his stomach and with a bowing of heads, they take their things and leave the room.

Castiel changes quickly into his new clothes. There’s a pair of black, close-fitting trousers to go with some new thick socks and tall black boots. The belt is black with a simple silver buckle but, Castiel notices, it doesn’t have any sheathes for swords – not that it’s a surprise. A thin white undershirt, much like his own, and like all of the guards – a dark leather jerkin worn over black long-sleeved doublets with the golden emblem of the Winchester’s sewn into the right breast. But unlike many of the guards he has seen, there is no chainmail. However, there is one last thing sitting on the wooden stool to complete his outfit. Two silver bands.

Castiel knows that three golden bands are reserved for the king and queen only and two golden bands for the princes and princesses of the Winchester castle. One golden band is something seen on the higher up generals and nobleman in Torrin. That’s as far as Castiel’s knowledge stretches but a quick look to the other guards in the room and they all have one silver band. And of course, the other day Castiel saw the Captain of the Guard adorning three silver bands, so perhaps the two silver bands are for personal guards only. Or possibly any high-ranking guards.

He doesn’t know how to feel as he slips them both onto his right bicep, one above the other. An angel adorning the emblem and silver bands that represent a high-ranking guard serving under King Winchester of Torrin, butcherer of his entire species. Well…not entire species. 

“Alright,” a guard’s voice from behind him interrupts his thoughts. “That’s enough. Now we must escort you to the Crown Prince. And as I said before – don’t try anything or we’ll gut you here and now.” Castiel lets out a deep breath before nodding and following one of the guards out the door and into the bright and colourful hallway.

He’s never seen anything like this before. The walls are furnished with intricate wallpaper designs made of rich colours; shades of red, white and gold. The rich red carpet covers the entire of the floor but Castiel can see the stone peeking out from underneath it at the edges. The ceiling is high above – large, glass chandeliers hanging down every twenty yards or so. Tall, glass windows and open doors let the sunlight in through the castle, a few small lanterns on the wall sitting unlit – not necessary. Castiel marvels at it all. A place like this has never been so vibrant. It must have taken years.

A rough shove to the back and Castiel snaps back to his surroundings – the guard in front of him has turned back to wait for him. Castiel quickly walks along, hoping that no one truly noticed his reaction. Now, as they turn different corners and even go up a wide staircase that could probably fit fifteen people across with a tall glass window reaching to the ceiling, Castiel takes in his new environment in a subtler way – in a way he should have in the first place. 

The colours of the walls and designs of the wallpapers change throughout their journey, however, instead of feeling overwhelming they somehow blend into each other seamlessly. He passes many sets of doors, all wooden with silver or gold handles and locks, and more artistic designs painted across them. Most of them, unfortunately, are shut making it much harder to understand where exactly everything is, although he’s sure he’ll find that out sooner or later.

It’s clear when he sees two guards standing outside a large set of doors that they’ve reached their destination. One of the guards sees them approach and opens the doors wide, standing aside as Castiel is ushered in.

Castiel’s eyes immediately land on the prince, who sits expectantly, feet up at a long, mahogany dining table. There is a platter of food sitting towards the end near Dean – food that looks so fresh and luscious, Castiel’s mouth waters at the sight. He flicks his eyes away as soon as he catches himself. He can’t show any weakness.

The small room has another tall arching window at the end, starting a few inches from the bottom of the floor and reaching all the way to the roof. The glass is clear and is bracketed on either side by dark curtains pulled back and secured with a rope. On either side of the room are two sets of double doors, one leading to his left, the other to his right. The walls themselves are plain – the wallpaper light blue verging on green and the floors the natural rich colours of polished wood that has been left untouched by paint. To Castiel it’s still something to gawk at but compared to the rest of the castle it could be described as simple. 

Castiel takes all of it in within the span of a few seconds along with the two guards who stand behind Dean.

“Would you look at that? I would never have known you could brush up this well when I first saw you,” Dean says, his eyes mocking and grin wide. Castiel doesn’t bother with a response and Dean raises his eyebrows as though he expected one but only shrugs his shoulders. “Alright, then. Why don’t you come over and take a seat.”

Castiel pauses for a moment before complying, treading carefully over the wooden floors – that give off nothing of a squeak – and takes the seat across from Dean, resting his hands casually in his lap. Dean turns his head to his guards and waves a flippant hand. 

“You’re dismissed,” he says, all too casually. A glance at the guards shows them open mouthed and eyes wide. 

“But Your Highness,” one starts, voice strained. “The deal was–”

“You’re dismissed,” Dean says again, this time with more weight. “You can wait outside.” He eyes both of them until they cave, nodding and exiting the room along with the guards who escorted Castiel in.

The air feels thick around him as the room becomes silent but he doesn’t avert his eyes away from Dean’s. One by one, the prince lifts his feet off the wooden tabletop and places them on the ground, twisting in his seat so he can face Castiel properly. 

“You must be hungry. Take anything you want,” he says, glancing down to the food that sits in between them. With a glance down himself, Castiel surveys the table. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen this much food for one person in his life. For some reason, he feels guilty just looking at it – like he doesn’t deserve it. There’s a warm loaf of bread and melted butter, a pile of assorted ripe fruit – fruit that only blooms in the warm season. He wonders what this platter must look like in summer.

In addition to that there are pastries and jams and of course, a large plate with various sliced meats, which sours Castiel’s stomach when he looks at it. It reminds him of the pigs in the wooden crate he spent journeying to the castle with. Humans and their ways. The angels were never perfect but at least they didn’t butcher innocent souls. How could they? He’d already prepared a story for why he doesn’t hunt or eat meat – someone’s bound to notice eventually and it’s the only thing that could possibly tie him to the angels – as they are the only culture in the Northern Continent that don’t eat the flesh of an animal. And he’s not exactly going to start eating it now just to fit in. 

Finally, at the end of the platter there are two plates and two sets of cutlery, one pair already dirtied and used and one pair sitting clean. Dean’s gaze is intense on him and Castiel looks back up to catch his eyes. He doesn’t feel comfortable with Dean staring at him like that. He feels something akin to vulnerability and Castiel hates himself for it. Here he is, already showing weakness. He can’t even do a simple task. What would Michael say?

Dean looks at him strangely. “Well? Don’t be shy. I’m all finished so eat as much as you can.” Castiel’s hands clench into fists in his lap as he pushes down that vulnerability and reaches across to take the clean plate and cutlery to set down in front of himself. He settles for a few warm slices of bread, lathering some butter across it, mouth watering as it melts. He eats slowly, restraining his eagerness to just devour the whole thing in one go. 

He still doesn’t like the way Dean stares at him. He can’t tell what’s turning over in the prince’s mind – what presumptions he’s making of Castiel. Although one thing he can see is that Dean doesn’t fear him, no matter how good a fighter he knows Castiel is. 

And then, “I’m not sure I understand. You were perfectly fine to rattle your mouth off yesterday but not today.” Castiel still doesn’t respond and Dean smirks, leaning back in his chair.

“Fine. I’ll get you going. What’s your family name?”

Castiel swallows down a mouthful of bread. “Novak.”

“Novak,” Dean repeats, rolling the word around on his tongue. He nods to himself, satisfied. “And where do you hail from?”

“Luttrell,” Castiel answers, pouring himself a mug of water from a jug. It’s a lie of course – he was born and raised for his first eleven years in Iowan, the former capital of Karlon that borders Torrin. _Former_ capital as it was home to the angels. And when all of the angels were murdered, any humans that lived there moved on and it was left a pile of rubble and ashes. Castiel’s not sure if anything has been built on top of it or if it’s still lying there in ruin. He’s never been back there.

Luttrell, however is a small town close to the border of Karlon and even closer to the Farlee Mountains. Castiel travelled there a few times when he was younger with his family. 

Dean raises one eyebrow. “And how did you end up in Kalapell?”

Castiel shrugs, tentatively reaching for some fresh fruit. “After my brother died, I didn’t have any money. So, I packed the few things I had and left. Stole a few things along the way. Enough to help me get by. And then I went to Kalapell and here I am.”

“And here you are,” Dean echoes, eyes slightly glazed as though he’s in his own thoughts. Castiel continues to eat slowly, savouring every bite but still trying not to look too starved. He eats until he’s satisfied, which doesn’t take long at all, as Dean sits across the table, gaze back to the intensity of before.

When he places his cutlery on his plate and pushes it forward, Dean stands from his chair, gesturing for Castiel to do the same with such confidence and ease that Castiel wants to resist purely because of it. He shouldn’t expect any less from a prince. Dean would have grown up with everything handed to him on a silver platter. Castiel stands anyway, resisting his foolish urge to rebel.

“I’ll call for the guards outside and then I will show you the chambers,” he says, beginning to walk towards the double doors at the end of the room. 

“And what of the guards already inside?” Dean pauses on the polished wooden floor and twists around to face Castiel, the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re quite observant,” Dean says, chin raised. 

“You can’t be a good fighter without being observant,” Castiel responds. Dean eyes appear to twinkle in the sunlight.

Castiel hears the men emerge from behind the dark curtains. He’d noticed the strange bulk of the curtains when he’d walked in and the irregular shadows as he’d sat down. He’d counted four at most. And when he finally tears his eyes away from Dean to look behind him, he finds himself right.  

“My question is how are your men so good at putting on an act?” Castiel asks, referring to the two guards who had practically blanched at Dean’s dismissal.

Dean crosses his arms in front of his chest. “They _are_ the best of the best.”

“You didn’t tell them about the other guards, did you?” Castiel guesses. Dean’s eyes narrow.

“Not exactly.” A beat. “I guess I don’t need any more guards then,” he says, before turning and walking towards the set of double doors to the left. Dean waits until Castiel is behind him before opening them up.

It only takes a glance to know that this is Dean’s room. It’s a large space, decorated with the same simple coloured wallpaper and polished floors as the hall. In the middle, pushed against the farthest wall is an enormous, lush bed with dark mahogany wood as the frame. And sitting at the end of it, pushed up against the footboard, a carved wooden chest. 

On either side of the bed are two smalls tables, a few books stacked on both of them with small lanterns and a bell hanging above. 

Glancing to the right, Castiel sees another tall window branching from the floor to the ceiling with dark curtains pulled back to the side but a closer look and he finds that they’re actually glass doors, leading out onto a small balcony. Beside the glass doors is a fireplace and beside that a bookshelf, stacked neatly, with a wooden desk and chair sitting in front of it – also surprisingly neat. The maids must have come in this morning. 

To the left of the room, another smaller room branches off, which Castiel guesses is a private bathing chamber. Beside that another bookshelf, completely packed with books and trinkets. 

“Every morning you will rise at dawn and promptly fetch me so we can go about our day. If anything is ever wrong I will ring that bell,” Dean says, pointing towards the small bell, “and if you are as quick as you were in the ring then hopefully we’ll never have any problems.”

Castiel grunts, almost rolling his eyes at the statement. 

Dean lifts an eyebrow, not looking amused. “Somehow, Castiel, I don’t think you really understand what you’re being given. This is a privileged role. Many men train for years to work their way up the ranks so they can have a shot at this position. And here you are, being given it to you after a few days.” _I didn’t ask for this_ , Castiel thinks, but doesn’t dare speak it. As painful as it is to serve under the prince, he can’t be thrown back in the dungeons to rot. 

Dean takes a few steps forward until he’s right in Castiel’s personal space, looking down at him. He observes the way Dean’s jaw pulls taut as his eyes narrow. “I’d be more grateful if I was you.”

Castiel lifts his chin high. “Yes, Your Highness.” Dean glares at him for a few more moments and in those moments, Castiel observes another thing. His eyes – they’re green. If he hadn’t seen them in the light he would’ve guessed they were black – or maybe that just resembles the dark soul Castiel imagines he has.

But now, he can finally see that they’re a striking shade of green. 

Dean drops his eyes, and pushes past him, shoving him lightly with his shoulder. “C’mon,” he calls. “Let’s show you to your chamber.” With his back still turned to Dean and the guards, Castiel closes his eyes for a second and lets out a deep breath. “Part of the role of being the personal guard to the Crown Prince is being punctual.”

Castiel grind his teeth together before turning around and following Dean across the room to the other set of double doors where Dean waits with an unimpressed look on his face.

“This will be your room for as long as you serve me,” Dean says, opening one of the doors for Castiel to peek inside. It’s a much smaller, barer version of Dean’s room. Decorated the same once again, although since he doesn’t have one tall window but two small windows on either side of a fireplace, the room is a lot darker. He also notices there are no curtains for the windows. If he is to wake up at dawn, he supposes curtains wouldn’t particularly help him with that.

Across from the fireplace, is a bed for one – still extravagant to Castiel even though it’s probably considered a large downgrade from Dean’s bed – with a smaller wooden chest sitting at the end. There’s one table beside the bed with a lantern hanging above it and on the far side of the room a chamber pot and a bath with one stool and two buckets. 

Dean probably sees it as shabby. Castiel sees it as luxury. But once again there’s that guilt that creeps into his chest. He doesn’t deserve any of this. 

“If you are still here beside me after a week or so and I deem you fit for the role, we will get some maids to size you up properly and you will be made a few new outfits and given something to sleep in. For now, you’ll have to do with what we’ve given you.” 

Castiel nods. Fair enough. He turns to face Dean. “What about my swords? Do you still have them?”

Dean nods. “Yes, we do.” Castiel raises his eyebrows.

“And?”

Dean huffs. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself. You’ll get them back when we know you’re not about to kill me.” 

“Then you shouldn’t have let me near you in the first place,” Castiel responds, sweeping his gaze back over the dark room until he realises what he’s said. He’s about to retort or stutter out an ‘I didn’t mean it like _that’_ , but Dean beats him to it.

“Maybe I was trying to prove something.” Castiel spins his head back around to find Dean looking at him with the beginnings of a smirk on his lips. 

“And what would that be?” Castiel asks, rising to the bait. Dean shrugs.

“That maybe you aren’t really a threat at all, like everyone else seems to think.”

Castiel tilts his head, interest piqued. “And how would you know that?” 

“Well,” Dean starts, hands clasped behind his back, “you’re an extremely skilful fighter, that’s for sure. And yet, when you attacked six men, the worst injury was a sprained hand and a few blows to the head. And as a fighter myself, I know how hard it is to fight someone without delivering a harmful blow. You didn’t want to hurt those men. You just wanted whatever was in that chest.” Dean’s eyes are bright and filled with pride. Castiel has to hand it to him. He’s a clever one. But that doesn’t mean his decision isn’t still entirely stupid. 

“But,” Dean says, drawing out his words, “we can’t be too sure.” He punctuates it with an infuriating grin. “Hence, you will get them back when you earn them.” And then, he’s moving back through to the hall and towards the doors Castiel entered through. “Come. The day has begun and the castle has awoken. Now you will find out what being assigned guard to the Crown Prince entails.”

This time Castiel doesn’t hesitate to follow.

 

______________________________________

 

“We train after breakfast,” Dean says, hearing the soft footsteps of Castiel and the heavier ones of his four chosen guards trailing behind him as he leads them down the hall, “either in the training hall or we’ll take the horses out to the field and train there.” For a man nearly as tall as Dean himself, although a little slimmer, he shouldn’t be so light on his feet. But here he is. Dean quickens his pace down the stairs. He’s already behind on time. He wants to be able to show Castiel around all the important places before his meeting. 

“Since you will be my new teacher, you will get to choose what weapons we are working with or if we’ll be doing hand to hand combat. Got that?” Dean asks, flicking his eyes slightly over his shoulder to meet Castiel’s. The man nods. 

“Alright, then,” Dean responds, flicking his eyes back to the front. He’s not sure if ‘man’ really suits the description of Castiel. He doesn’t look older than himself and while he most certainly looks a man and fights like a man – even has the mouth of a man – the image of him sitting at the table before the laid out food, slightly hunched in on himself, hands in his lap and the exposed look in his eyes – he looked a boy. 

Dean doesn’t know what to make of it. For he seems to be completely disobedient and smart-mouthed the rest of the time. There must be layers. Layers upon layers. So far, it does seem as though he has spent half the time intrigued by the man and half the time infuriated by him. 

It _was_ all intriguing until Castiel had opened his mouth and _‘What would you know of desperate?’_. It stung. It still stings. He may not know of being desperate for food and shelter – something he is grateful for – but he knows of desperation. Desperation for respect. For admiration. 

And here Castiel is, a petty thief – a man destined for punishment far worse in which Dean personally saved him from – that won’t respect him. He doesn’t care if Castiel doesn’t bow down at his feet – it’s why many of the guards respect him – because he treats them like fellow men – but he does care that Castiel treats him with that respect. Only then will it be mutual.

But of course, things never come that easy. Not for Dean. And so, he’ll have to wait to find out more about this strange man who walks beside him just now.

It’s the sight through a doorway of an unruly, brown mop in the inner courtyard that snaps him out of his thoughts. He sighs as he steps through the doorway into the fresh, cool air. Snow litters the ground but it’s not too deep – not yet. Winter has come late this year.

Dean leads them through a few of the garden beds and hedges before coming to a halt in front of his younger brother. Sam looks up, sunny and pants already wet from where he’s been trudging in the snow. His own personal guard, Mervyn, stands behind him.

“Morning, Sammy. How was your night?” Dean asks, but Sam’s not looking at him, his eyes trained on none other than Castiel. Dean’s eyes close for a second in frustration.

“Is this the new guard?” Sam asks, and Dean wishes he could just have a conversation with his brother first. _Just get it over with_ , he thinks. Castiel must nod behind him because then, “You beat all those men in the ring! I’m Sam, by the way. Prince Sam.” 

Dean waits for the reply but doesn’t get one and much to his surprise – and annoyance – Castiel takes a step forward, bending down on one knee in the snow and reaches a hand out for Sam.

“I am Castiel. But you can call me Cas, Your Highness,” Castiel says, in the softest and most _respectful_ way Dean has seen out of him so far. He doesn’t think – he knows Castiel did this to get a rise out of him. And maybe it will. His hands clench behind his back. 

Sam takes Castiel’s hand with his own small one and shakes it with the strongest grip his twelve-year-old self can muster. “You can call me Prince Sam,” Sam replies, nodding and Castiel bows his head slowly before releasing his hand and standing. 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Prince Sam.”

Sam smiles, wide and bright. “Alright, that’s enough,” Dean says, shooting a glare towards Sam. “We need to move on but I’ll talk to you later, Sammy.”

“Okay. Bye, Dean.” Dean finally smiles back and walks past him towards an entryway on the other side of the courtyard. And then, “Bye, Cas!”

Dean’s smile is gone in an instant. He doesn’t hear a reply but Castiel must have nodded or waved back. 

 _Fine_ , he thinks. If Castiel wants to play it like that, that’s his problem. Dean’s not one to back down from a challenge. Dean’s not one to back down from anyone – no matter how good of a fighter they are.

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel knows he shouldn’t have done what he did. But he’s impulsive. He knows that. And it’s a weakness that Michael punished him for many times, although, Castiel knows deep down that the reason for his impulsiveness is because of Michael in the first place.

He’s impulsive and hot-tempered and whatever else because of _him_. 

It doesn’t help that Dean is arrogant and his self-importance is hysterical. _Who does he think he is? What did he ever do to earn respect from Castiel, let alone anyone?_ He was born into all of these luxuries. 

Castiel was born into a broken life. And the luxuries he did have – his mother, his father, his friends, his home – all of it was stripped from him. He’s done nothing but suffer in this world. He had four months of bliss. Nearly five. And that was it. Everything before and after – all of it pain, although the pain that came before seems like a pinprick compared to the pain that came after. He shakes the thoughts from his head – he can’t be dwelling on this now.

The exploration of the castle doesn’t take as long as Castiel thought, Dean rushing through most of it. Either he can’t be bothered to spend the time to introduce Castiel properly or he’s running late for something. 

Because of that, Castiel doesn’t get to see much of any of it. He gets a few glances here and there but nothing detailed. He’s shown the stables, although they don’t go inside. Back within the castle, he’s shown the kitchen – glancing in for only a moment to see cooks and servants bustling around. Dean gestures vaguely to a large set of doors when he mentions meetings are in there, so Castiel doesn’t even get a glimpse. 

The enter hall after hall, Dean pointing out where he sometimes eats lunch and dinner with Sam, where the balls are held and where his lessons are held in a library and Castiel has to pause a moment in front of it, squinting through the tiny sliver of the door that he can see through. Dean stops, turning and tells him he will see inside later this afternoon when he has a lesson. Castiel still takes a moment before he continues on. A place to start. 

Walking through the halls, Castiel notices any guards or even servants and maids that walk past nod or bow their heads towards the prince, in which Dean responds with a raise of the chin. And to his surprise, most of them also offer him a smile but as Castiel trails behind him, he can’t tell if Dean offers one back. 

Towards the back of the castle, they enter a large spacious room – for now completely taken up by guards fighting. The training hall, as Dean calls it. Only the guards who aren’t currently wielding a sword or in the middle of combat take notice of Dean and nod their heads. 

The walls of the room are lined with wooden racks and hooks for the weapons, shields and armour. Wooden chests line the floors underneath those, most likely carrying more of the same. 

The floor of the room is covered in dirt and sand, offering a softer fall for the men. On each side of the room, including the one they just came through, is a set of large wooden double doors, opened wide and letting the daylight shine through the arches. 

“…depends on the day or the weather, but most of the time I like to train outside,” Dean says, cutting straight through the middle of the hall, men seemingly parting with ease all around him. 

“That is the core of my day although other things include attending festivals and events – all of which are held outside of the gate unless something or rather prevents it – and escorting me to manors around Anathee.” Dean whirls on him then, just before the wooden door that exits outside. “And on good days, you will follow me wherever I go to spend my free time. Did you get that all written down?” 

Castiel stares at him blankly and Dean’s lips twist up into a smirk. His eyes suddenly avert over Castiel’s shoulders and light up. “Oh, I want you to meet somebody,” he says, clapping Castiel hard on the shoulder as he walks past him. Castiel lets out a rough breath. He’s not sure if Dean hit him on purpose knowing his body is bruised and aching from the beating – most of which he hasn’t healed yet.

He only deliberates for a moment before turning and following Dean back towards the middle of the room. A familiar face is waiting for him there, eyes trained solely on the prince who strides towards him.

“It’s good to see you again, my friend,” Dean says, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. The man nods back, a small smile on his lips. “This,” Dean waves a hand towards Castiel, “is Castiel. And Castiel, this is Joren. He is the one that knocked you out cold in Kalapell.”

From the prideful look on Dean’s face, Castiel knows he’s getting his satisfaction out of showing Castiel the person who is supposedly the reason for him being here in the first place. Castiel doesn’t spare him another glance, turning to Joren. 

The man regards him with a smile before nodding. Joren had been waiting by the carriage in Kalapell – cutting him off at the end of another alleyway after he’d seen Castiel attack the guards at the opposite end of the one he was waiting beside. Castiel nods back politely.

He is a short and slim, looking ripe even in his older age – his brown hair short and cropped close to his head.

“It is nice to meet you, Joren,” Castiel says, and the man’s eyes flash with an amused look.

“He doesn’t speak,” Dean says, beside him. “An unfortunate outcome from war.” At that moment, Joren lifts his chin slightly to show the jagged scar across his throat. “But it doesn’t slow him down. If we had a few moments to spare I would show you the arrow range outside. Joren’s the best bowman in the castle. Never missed a shot.”

Dean grins, and Joren continues to look between both of them with that smile, small and polite. He looks at ease in Dean’s company, not stiff or nervous. Dean leans into Joren’s personal space then, head ducked slightly. 

“I still owe you for what you did in Kalapell.” Joren begins to shake his head, the small smile turning into a frown. “No, no, I do. Let Dimarus know what you want and I’ll have it to you as quickly as I can.” Joren sighs and looks at Dean with soft eyes. “The king would want you to.” Castiel not’s quite sure what they’re discussing but he assumes it’s Joren saving the royal jewels from being stolen. Another thing the prince is clearly trying to shove in his face.

Joren finally returns with that polite smile and nods. “There we are.” Dean claps the man on the shoulder – maybe he didn’t intend to hurt Castiel before – and goes to move past him. “I’ll speak to you later,” he calls over his shoulder. Castiel pauses for a moment, eyes meeting Joren’s again. That polite smile turns into a frown and without any more acknowledgement, he walks away. 

Castiel huffs, striding forward to catch up with Dean, the heavy footsteps of the four guards trailing behind him. 

They enter the castle once more, retracing their steps until they come across the set of doors – now open – that Dean had said were used for meetings. Dean halts in front of the door and turns on Castiel again. “I have a meeting now. It should be over quickly. You will stand behind me and not make a sound.” He doesn’t even ask if Castiel has ‘got that’ before turning back and entering the room. 

Castiel enters hesitantly, eyes already landing on him – they must see he’s new or have already heard about him. Castiel doesn’t meet any of their eyes, taking in the room instead. It’s a small long room, the men sitting down at the long dining table only taking up about half the seats. The chair at the head of the table – carved and intricate – is empty and Dean sits in the one to its left across from the man who Castiel recognises as the Captain of the Guard.

He can feel the captain’s eyes on him too, switching between Dean and himself. The walls are decorated with red and gold wallpaper and a chandelier hangs from the ceiling. It’s simple but still rich and Castiel feels strangely like his dirty boots are tainting the carpet.

The servants must tire themselves in here. 

Castiel stands next to his four guards, lining the wall and watches as one more man enters the room, looking at each face sitting at the table before closing the doors behind him. The mild chatter dies down as he sits. 

The men – generals – talk about many things – some of which peak Castiel’s interest, some of which do not. He listens intently throughout it all, however. The only important matter they seemingly discuss is of a letter they received from the mayor of Lithos, a small town that lies near the border between the two countries. 

It’s also the closest town to Iowan and one that heavily traded with the angel’s capital. Unfortunately, when the angels and the city itself were wiped out, Lithos struggled to keep its head above the water and subsequently ended up in debt.

The letter is asking for some coin, for a helping hand to finally get them up and running again. The men all speak like those who’ve lived with riches all their life.

“They should be thanking us. Haven’t we given them enough?”

“They’ve always been foul down there. Why did they trade with the animals in the first place?”

“We’ve supplied them for years. Where does our charity go? To refurbishing the mayor’s house?” 

Castiel knows like everybody that has ever been to the town itself, that the so-called charity they provide is next to nothing. Interestingly enough, although Castiel can’t see Dean’s face, the prince doesn’t voice a word. 

“I suggest we have someone speak with him directly. The guards aren’t enough. One of us perhaps, to inspect the mayor closely,” one general finally says. Some of the men around the table nod, others not looking too enthusiastic – most likely since they don’t want to be the man that has to ‘inspect’ the mayor – but nod anyway. Castiel turns to look back at Dean – to see his own response – and finds the captain’s eyes glancing over him. 

As soon as his eyes find Castiel’s, they avert back towards the other men. He feels strangely uncomfortable, shuffling on his feet. He doesn’t like it when anyone’s eyes linger on his body. 

“…more in a few days. We’ll send a letter and wait for the response before organising anything. Agreed?”

The voices of the men answering muffle together but the conclusion is the same for everyone. Agreed. 

The rest of the meeting doesn’t take long, Dean only interjecting a few times but he’s always attentive, back straight and meeting the eyes of all the generals. 

As the meeting ends, the captain whispers something to Dean quickly that he can’t hear over the prattle of the other men. Dean glances at Castiel once before the captain nods and leaves the room. Dean looks to him again, this time motioning his head towards the door and Castiel understands, following after him.

He identifies where they are going before they get there. The kitchen. A glance out a window as they pass through the hall and Castiel sees the sun high in the sky. It must be midday already. 

“Most days,” Dean starts abruptly, “I try to eat my meal for lunch with Sam. Others I will have it sent for our rooms. You will eat with us, as long as you have good manners.”

This time Castiel can’t hold back rolling his eyes. 

The enter an average sized room – not decorated with wallpaper, rugs or tapestries. Just the bare stone walls and stone floors. Long wooden benches vertically line the room with one sitting, horizontally at the back. It’s smaller with four seats – Sam and his personal guard already there. Castiel gazes over the few men who are seated at the other benches, the one golden band signifying a general curving around their biceps.

The kitchen sits to their right, an open long serving window where a few other generals wait to grab their food. The cooks and servants are bustling inside, preparing and cleaning, a few eyes finding Dean and shouting at the others. Instead of lining up, Dean walks straight past to the head table, Sam grinning as he sees him approach. 

With a look over Castiel’s shoulders, he notices the four guards trailing them have broken off to line up and get their own food. 

Dean greets his brother and his own personal guard with a warm smile – and if Castiel didn’t see it for himself he wouldn’t have believed anyone who said the Crown Prince could smile _warmly_. 

“How has your day been, Mervyn? He’s not giving you too much trouble,” Dean asks, rounding the table to sit next to his brother, Castiel sitting next to the older man and across from Dean.

Mervyn chuckles and Sam scoffs. “Not too much today. Although there is still half of it to go.” A cheeky smile crosses Sam’s face and Dean grins, eyes bright as he looks down at his younger brother.

“I don’t think we’ve had a proper introduction,” the older man says beside Castiel. He holds a hand out and Castiel stares at it, swallowing. “Mervyn.”

“Castiel,” he responds, quickly taking his hand and shaking firmly before pulling away. The man seems nice – one of the few nice guards he’s seen so far. The man is bald, a few speckles of grey hair popping up over his head but he looks strong like a bull and wise like an owl – nevertheless, Castiel still wonders how long the guards last in these positions.

For as long as you are still strong like a bull and wise like an owl, he supposes.

“How was your first day, Cas?” Sam says excitedly, his face bright with joy. Castiel nearly frowns at the thought that that joy won’t be there for much longer. The warm smile on Dean’s face slips away and he flicks his eyes away in disinterest, not even sparing Castiel a glance. 

“Quite the experience, Prince Sam. I have never been on the inside of a castle before.” He never had the pleasure of entering the royal castle in Iowan. Well, at least not _really_. He had planned it though – his family had planned it. To visit and show their thanks to the royals for helping save him. But the war happened first. 

“Never?” Sam says, mouth wide. Castiel shakes his head. “Well, I hope Dean took you to all the interesting places.”

“I believe he did,” Castiel answers, glancing up from under his eyelashes to see Dean watching him, eyes, however, still filled with disinterest. 

“Even the library?” Sam asks.

“I haven’t been in it quite yet but I caught a glimpse inside as we passed.”

“Oh, you have to see inside Cas, it’s so big and filled with thousands of books.” Sam turns to Dean sharply. “Dean, you have to take him to the library.”

“Yeah, I will, Sammy. I have a lesson there after lunch so he can see it then,” Dean says, tone flippant and posture now slumped. 

Sam smiles, looking back at Castiel and begins to go on about every nook and cranny and book that must be in the place, Mervyn adding something occasionally.

The entire time Dean picks at some dirt under his fingernails. 

Time passes quickly, new smells filling his nostrils and eventually a few servants crowd around their table, placing platters of foods in the middle and a plate and cutlery down in front of each of them. 

A big woman with red hair pulled back into bun strides over to the table after the servants are done. She has stains on her fingers and chubby cheeks, her apron practically a painter’s palette with the different colours that smear it. 

Finally, that warm smile of Dean’s re-emerges. “Hermana, this is my new guard, Castiel. Castiel this is the head cook, Hermana.” The woman smiles, her freckled face kind and sincere. 

“It is always lovely to make a new acquaintance,” she says, bowing her head and Castiel nods his own. 

“You do the food for the prince’s breakfast?” he asks, and Hermana nods. “It is some of the best food I’ve ever had the pleasure to indulge in.” Hermana’s cheeks grow pink and she attempts to supress a smile. 

“Why thank you,” she says softly and Dean takes her grubby food-stained hand in his own.

“What? You didn’t believe me when I told you the same thing?” Dean’s smile is charming now – not cocky charming but sweetly charming and Hermana huffs, pulling her hand away. 

“Don’t you look at me like that,” she responds, before smiling shyly and scurrying back to the kitchen, mumbling something under her breath. Dean chuckles, looking back to the food and filling his own plate. Sam and Mervyn do the same. 

Castiel watches for a moment, hands still in his lap until he feels eyes on him again. He glances up to see Dean watching him. They regard each other for a moment before Dean gives the slight nod of his head towards the food. 

Castiel, hesitant again, averts his eyes and gathers some food on his plate. 

Small talk is made as they eat, Castiel only speaking when he is spoken to directly – only from Sam and Mervyn – never from Dean. Dean’s eyes always seem to find his own, however, and Castiel lets his own gaze linger for a second or two before flashing away. Those green eyes are always probing at him, as though he may find what he searches for in Castiel’s own. 

He flushes down his food with a jug of water and only then does he start to feel even slightly full. Castiel watches as Sam eats with his mouth open and lips smudged with sauce as he talks with Mervyn. 

“How old are you?” The voice cuts across the table unexpectedly and Castiel turns his head to find Dean looking at him, waiting. Sam and Mervyn continue their conversation beside them. 

Castiel furrows his eyebrows, thinking for a moment. He hasn’t properly celebrated his birthday since he was ten. The last year with his parents. “Twenty years.”

“This year?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head. “It’s my twenty first year in the ninth cycle. The eighteenth of the ninth.” Dean nods his head and takes a sip from his own jug. 

“And I suppose you know mine?” Dean says, but in his voice hangs no arrogance or pride. It is a statement as any other, a matter of fact. And he does. The twenty-fourth of the first cycle. Dean turned twenty-two years of age barely over a week ago.

“May the gods wish you well,” Castiel says, a common phrase received by one on their birthday. It’s usually said with a joyous smile and a gift given but for Castiel’s first nine birthday celebrations it was said as a plea. Not to the ‘gods’ in his case of course but god, singular. The God of Light. For one birthday, however, it was said with a joyous smile. And never again.

The god must be tampering with Castiel himself now, for before his eyes there is a brief sincere, quirk of lips. And then it’s gone, replaced with that casual disinterest. Dean turns back to his food and doesn’t speak to him again until he is finished, although Castiel still feels those green eyes on him from time to time. Searching. Wondering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean will be getting more POV time in the upcoming chapters. It's only heavily Castiel now because I'm still introducing things!
> 
> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed! Chapters will be posted every Saturday ~8/9pm AEST time.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://angvlicmish.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

The library is as magnificent as Sam said it was. Castiel stares in awe, not even trying to hide it as Dean leads him through the shelves. 

The shelves themselves range as high as the ceiling and appear to stretch on endlessly. The young prince wasn’t lying when he said there were thousands of books. Although looking at it now, there must be more than thousands. He wonders if this is what the library in the royal castle in Iowan looked like. 

Weaving in and out of the little gaps in the shelves, almost like a maze, Dean leads them to a small little nook with a table and a few chairs. An older man already sits there, a book open in his lap. 

“This is my teacher Orderic,” Dean says, gesturing towards the old man. The old man looks up, spectacles resting on his nose as he glances at Castiel. “Orderic, my new guard, Castiel.” Castiel nods but the man just looks back down at his book.

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard much about you. The castle is amok with chatter already,” he utters. Castiel narrows his eyes. 

“Chatter?” Castiel asks, and a glance over to Dean shows that the prince knows nothing of this ‘chatter’ either. 

“Nothing too bad, I promise,” Orderic says, but his voice betrays any certainty. He looks almost amused. Perfect. He could tell when the maids came to bathe him this morning that they were afraid – that they must have heard about him trying to steal the jewels and of his fighting ability. He hopes that’s the end of it. But considering how lucky he is, he’s assuming it’s not. Who knows what rumours are running rampant throughout the castle. 

Dean shakes his head beside Castiel as if he’s dismissing his own thoughts before turning to him. “If you want to scour the shelves, three of the guards have to go with you. We finish here in an hour.” Without another word, he takes a seat at the table across from his teacher.

Castiel stands still for a moment before glancing towards the guards and walking off into the shelves. There’s a moment of hesitation before he hears three sets of boots walking after him. 

He finds many books on angels during his hour wandering the library. None of which, however, speak of them kindly. Some speak of the Fall – when hundreds and hundreds of years ago the angels fell to the earth – and what _they_ think happened. It’s wrong of course, the angels are the only ones who know the truth. Few cultures around the world actually believed the truth that the angels told.

Others took the angels falling from the sky and made up their own truths rational to their own religions.

In Torrin the gods are Leuric and Patrus, brothers in arms, who created the world together. And in that world, were humans and angels. Angels lived in the sky and were powerful beings. They guided human souls to paradise after death and watched over the world to keep any evil out. 

But along the way, the angels became the source of evil in the world. They were deviants and immoral. They lay with each other no matter the sex. They crossbred with different cultures. They had no order. And the gods saw this and the influence they were having upon the humans they created and for it, all of them were punished. 

The angels were cast from the sky and fell to the earth. Along the way they were stripped of their powers – the powers of their halos, grace and wings – the only thing marking them a once holy thing were the physical manifestations of the wings on their back. It was another punishment from the gods – to have their wings stay – marking them as sinners.

And so, when word went out that the angels had chosen Torrin’s south as their home, the long ago king and people were outraged. But there was nothing they could do. Angels came from everywhere – all over the world from where they’d fallen and thus the occurrence that was these angels of different races and ethnicities living together in harmony.

A hundred years after they had flocked to the northern continent, the angels stole the south, finally drawing a line in the earth to mark their own country, Karlon. The only benefit the current king received was finally being able to have his country separated from the angels and the immoral lives they continued to lead on earth.

And for the Three and the underworld – for the truth, the humans believed a myth – a story spun and told to give the angel’s a good name. 

The truth hasn’t been told for ten years, since the war. It died with the angels. Or, it was supposed to. Because of course, not all angels are dead.

Castiel knows the truth – it’s a sacred truth passed down generations after generations. He knows his own gods, the God of Light and the God of Darkness – in his own native tongue, Enochian, the Elo de Olapireta and the Elo de Oresa. 

When the angels travelled to Torrin to make it their home, however, the Torric language was learned and the names Leuric and Patrus were bestowed on the gods. It is easier this way. Castiel may speak of his gods without any of these humans knowing that he is not worshipping the same ones as they do – not worshipping the same ideals and morals.

As he flicks through pages and pages of books, he finds none of which that even mention the angel’s religion. Only their own made up story of the fall and the hundreds of years that came after. 

And nothing of what happened ten years ago. Nothing of the war. Nothing of that truth. The truth that Castiel, for the first time, does not know and desperately needs to find out. 

 

______________________________________

 

Emery Fletcher is avoiding the sideways glances of the few men who remain in the training hall when he stumbles into the path of the Crown Prince himself. The prince is in the middle of speaking to Castiel, now officially his new guard, when he meets Emery’s own brown eyes and cuts himself off. 

Emery stands frozen, not sure exactly what he’s supposed to do when the prince walks directly towards him.

“We haven’t been formally introduced yet,” the prince says, face earnest.

“Emery Fletcher, Your Highness,” he responds, bowing slightly. “It’s an honour to finally meet you.” If a few eyes were on him before, all of them are on him now. The Crown Prince acknowledging the half-blood. The sight before them is rarer than if the sky turned blood red. He can practically feel the rage and jealousy radiating off of them and he has to try incredibly hard to keep his face devoid of any emotion. 

“The captain has told me a lot about you. Your father was a good man, I hear. Loyal and a good fighter.” Emery nods, making certain that his gaze does not stray from the prince’s. “And from what I’ve seen so far, you have great potential. Don’t let Dimarus down.” His father, Baudet, a pure blood Torric whom served as a noble’s guard for more than a decade is in fact the only reason Emery, a nineteen-year-old half-blood is standing in the royal castle as a royal guard in this fine evening. His father had been shunned for taking a dark-skinned woman from the southern continent as his wife. But he had friends in high places and he was one of the best and brightest. And friends in high places included the father of the current Captain of the Royal Guard. 

Dimarus has allowed him to train and then serve without hesitation after a few words with his own father. He only started a little over half a moon ago. The first half blood to serve in the royal guard and he won’t be the last. Emery knows it in his heart.  

“I won’t let him down, Your Highness. Nor you.” The prince offers him a smile.

“That’s good to hear.” And just as it appears he is going to walk on, another voice cuts through.

“Castiel Novak.” Castiel leans around Dean to shoot him a small smile. Emery catches himself smiling back at the man, his head held high. Castiel looks much better than when he saw him the other day, blood covering half his face, dirt covering the other half, clothes ragged and old. “You are a very talented fighter,” Castiel goes on, his blue eyes honest. “It was a pleasure to battle you in the ring the other day.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Emery responds, nodding his head politely. The prince, still standing beside Castiel, is shooting a strange look in his new guard’s direction. 

Emery bows again towards the prince and withdraws, not wanting to cause any more trouble for Castiel than he’s heard he’s already received. He gets back to the task at hand, keenly aware of the mumbling and glaring all around him now. He snatches up a few different bows and some practice arrows before heading towards the far doors that exit outside where Joren waits for him at the arrow range. 

It’s exciting to finally meet the man and put a face to the name. Joren Morley, greatest bowman in the country – in the continent. 

Carrying the arrows and bows towards the doors, Emery feels another gaze on him, heavier than the others. He glances to his right and sees a pair of eyes flick away. The guard sits by himself, polishing a sword – possibly his own. He’s a strong man – strong like a bull – perhaps the strongest man he’s seen in the castle and if he is not, then he must be up there. 

His body reeks of hardness, of intolerance. Most men the size of him take the world in their hands and crush anyone who stands in their way. But a glimpse of his face and Emery is not so sure of him. His face is warm, a brown neatly trimmed beard drawing attention to the shape of his lips. 

Emery turns back to the door and wonders what his eyes look like as he feels them on him once more. He exits the training hall before he can summon the courage to meet the man’s eyes and discover whether they are in fact soft and warm or if he has been mistaken – and they are as hard and hateful as the others.

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel watches as Emery disappears from the hall and out into the field. The gossiping of guards does not stop, however, for Castiel is still in the room and apparently that is something to talk about. 

“I suppose we’ll start with the swords,” Castiel says, pointing towards the wooden swords that hang from the brackets on the wall. It’s late now and they’re finally commencing their first training session. One of the four guards grabs two from the wall and walks over to hand one to Dean. Castiel finds a spot on the sandy ground and sits, cross legged.

Dean turns and stares at him. “What are you doing?”

Castiel stares back. “Sitting.”

“What, you’re going to train me from the floor?” Dean asks, and Castiel narrows his eyes.

“Yes.” Dean stares a moment longer before shaking his head in contempt. 

“Teach away, then,” Dean says, waving his hand towards Castiel. All four guards are flicking their eyes strangely between Castiel and the prince. Possibly wondering if they should be stepping in – but he’s not exactly posing a threat so, why would they? Oh, respect. Castiel almost forgot.

“Fight him first.” Dean raises an eyebrow before shaking his head and turning back to the guard. They get into their stances as the other guards stand just out of reach. And without further prompting begin their fight.

Castiel is impressed. Dean is a decent fighter, beating the guard in only a few strikes. He’s quick on his feet with good balance but still, he has a lot to improve. Dean looks to Castiel when they’re finished, waiting for instruction and Castiel definitely doesn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him he’s a good fighter or even hinting at it with his own face.  

“Again,” Castiel says, and Dean huffs turning back to the guard. It feels strange being the one with the authority. Being the one who gives orders. He wouldn’t dare speak with authority in his voice to Michael. 

The fight is over again, longer than the last but the result is the same. Dean glances down at him and this time he actually looks hopeful. Castiel must be seeing it wrong.

“Fight two of them.” Dean nods towards another guard who grabs a sword from the wall and joins the other. Dean loses the first time but before Castiel can say anything they’re fighting again. Dean’s not the smallest man in the world – taller than even Castiel and has some notable muscles – so it really is a surprise to see just how quick he is. He beats the guards in the second fight and this time when he looks to Castiel, there’s a hint of pride. 

Castiel finally stands from the ground, brushing away the dirt from his pants and walks towards one of the guards, taking the wooden sword straight out of his hands. He looks at Dean, eyes narrowed, and raises his sword. 

Dean doesn’t move from his position. Castiel twirls the sword in his palms and nods towards Dean. “Attack me,” he says, and Dean only hesitates a moment before lurching forward. Castiel quickly disarms him, his sword to Dean’s chest in a matter of moments. His body aches from the action but he doesn’t let any hurt cross his face. Dean’s jaw twitches and he bats it away to retrieve his own sword from the ground. “Always wait for your opponent to strike first.”

Dean scoffs. “But you said-–”

“Your _opponent_ said. Do you listen to your opponent?” 

Dean throws a hand into the air. “But you’re my teacher. Aren’t I supposed to listen to you?”

Castiel shrugs. Dean’s jaw twitches again. He’s not sure why he’s so angry. The first time Castiel did that with Michael, his punishment was a blow from his wooden sword down upon Castiel’s wrists. It was just weak enough so as to not break any bones but hard enough to leave them bruised and aching tremendously. And still he was made to lift his sword again.

Castiel can feel his breaths coming quicker and swiftly defuses the thought. 

They raise their swords again. And wait. And wait. Dean rolls his eyes. 

“And what happens if none of us make the first move?” Dean asks, and Castiel smiles. He darts forward then, catching Dean off balance. His sword point rests touching just below Dean’s neck. 

“That probably won’t happen. Not many men are that patient.” Dean looks more than frustrated now. 

“But you just broke your own rule. So, I am supposed to attack first now or what?” 

“You’ll have to judge that for yourself in different circumstances but for one on one, you’ll wait.”

“Then, why didn’t you?” Dean says, voiced raised. 

Castiel twirls his sword in his palm again, grip tightening. “That rule does not apply to me when facing you.” 

Dean’s eyes widen, incredulous. “When facing me?”

“Yes.”

“And why not?”

“Because I am clearly better than you and therefore it is no disadvantage for me to attack first,” Castiel says, enjoying the hardened look on Dean’s face. Is he really the first person to threaten Dean’s pride?

“So, you were just showing off?” 

Castiel’s eyebrows furrow. “Maybe I’m just showing you that you’re not as good as you think you are.”

Dean glares at Castiel a moment before responding, arms out gesturing towards the guards. They all have their hands on their hilts. “Well I’m one of the best fighters in this castle. Doesn’t that count for something?” 

“Not really. It just says a lot about the fighters in this castle.”

“Well if you’re so good, how did Joren knock you out in Kalapell?” Dean shoots back. Castiel narrows his eyes and suddenly a smirk appears on Dean’s face. It’s suddenly hard to remember the warm, charming smile he had seen from Dean at lunch. 

Castiel spots another guard out of the corner of his eye, walking hesitantly towards them.

With his free hand, Dean points an accusing finger at Castiel’s chest, eyes darkening. “So, maybe you’re not as good as you think you are.” Castiel doesn’t bother opening his mouth to respond, just staring straight back at Dean until of course, there’s a small, anxious cough next to them.

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” the guard says, and one glance shows how young he is. By the time Dean turns to face the young man, most of the hardness has bled from him, replaced with that ever so charming guise. 

“Yes?” The young man nods his head slightly, a wary look thrown towards Castiel before he speaks again.

“The captain is asking to speak with you now.”

“Now? Can’t I speak to him later?” Dean responds, but there’s nothing frustrated about the answer.

“Unfortunately, he has a meeting later and is afraid he’ll miss you if you don’t come now.”

Dean lets out a deep breath before nodding. “Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.” The young man bows this time before striding away.

Dean turns back to Castiel and reaches a hand out. For a second, Castiel looks at it, not sure what he’s doing when Dean just rolls his eyes and grabs the sword from Castiel. He places the two swords back on the wall and starts walking back inside the castle. 

 

______________________________________

 

Dean slumps his head against the door when it closes behind him. His eyes fall shut and he breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Still as enthusiastic about this new guard as you were before, Your Princliness?” Dean groans, pushing off the door and walking towards Dimarus’ desk.

“I don’t regret my decision. He’s just…” he sighs. “It seems that he really isn’t afraid of punishment after all.” Dean slumps down in the spare chair, running a hand through his hair. It’s been a long day. And though he doesn’t regret it, he wishes this was easier. There always seems to be something in the way of him. Always.

“So, that’s it? He’s just a pain in your ass?” Dimarus leans forward, face serious now.

“Yes, that’s all. There are no signs of him planning any harm to me.” Well, that’s not entirely true. Dean doesn’t think he plans to murder him but perhaps he wouldn’t mind punching Dean in the face. Dean himself wouldn’t mind doing the same thing back. “He just likes to run his mouth. I believe he’s a little frustrated at being appointed to this position.”

“Well, we did pluck him from the streets and give him the option of either this or a lifetime in the dungeons. I think I’d be frustrated too.” Dean crosses his arms at Dimarus seemingly taking Castiel’s side – a _thief’s_ side. Dimarus waves a dismissive hand and decides to move on.

“I have bad news and interesting news. Which would you like to hear first?” he says, and Dean raises an eyebrow.

“No good news, today?” Dimarus shakes his head. Dean sighs.

“The bad news then.” Although, he knows already what the captain is going to say. 

“Your father finally heard of your choice.” There it is. “I believe he used the words _reckless_ and _stupid_ and no precautions will reduce the _foolishness_ of the decision.” Dean rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. 

It’s been a _terribly_ long day. And though he was expecting it, it still hurts. 

He knows it’s not true. He’s not stupid. Many of the generals and guards – even Orderic and Dimarus – have stated on his intelligence. His mother always used to remark on it. But she’s gone now.

Yet still his father’s words work their way through his defences. But if Castiel can teach him to fight better than any man in the castle, he will finally get his father’s approval. Then he will be allowed in on the more important meetings – trusted with the more important matters. Surely then his father would speak to him more face to face rather than through Dimarus.

His friend must see it on his face, responding with, “You’ll just have to prove him wrong.” Dean shoots him a weak smile. It’s enough to let him move on for now.

“And the interesting news?” Dean asks. Dimarus’ huffs, shaking his head.

“There’s already rumours flooding the castle.” Of course, Dean thinks, remembering back to what Orderic had said. And of course, because the guards have never held back with their gossip.

“Well?” Dean asks, impatient.

“The men who stood guard while Castiel was bathing this morning say they saw scars and burns covering his body.” Dean narrows his eyes. “Some of his skin melted and disfigured. I heard that they said the scars are a tally for each life he’s taken.” Dean rolls his eyes and Dimarus laughs. “I felt the same way when I heard that last bit.”

“Is any of it true?” 

Dimarus nods. “It’s what I wanted to tell you in the meeting. I found the men who were actually in the room with him and they said the scars were true. They were everywhere. Although they only saw his back not his front, so who knows what else. But I’m not sure I would believe what any of them say. They’re trustworthy in everything except for when it comes to rumours. I’d have to see it for myself.” 

Dean nods slowly, brows pinched. Interesting. The mysterious man becomes even more mysterious. Dean’s always been good at reading people. But Castiel stumps him. At one look and he thinks he knows but at the next, the man has completely changed.

One thing he does know. Castiel certainly doesn’t like him. And it doesn’t take any intelligence to figure that out. 

“I guess we will,” Dean says, sighing again.

“Any more news to report?” Dimarus asks and Dean shakes his head. Dimarus taps his knuckles on the table, lips pursed and eyes raised to the ceiling.

Dean sits forward. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Dimarus responds, all too quickly. “I have a meeting with your father soon and I’m not quite sure what it’s about.”

Dean grunts, pushing himself up from his seat. “Well, good luck.” Dimarus huffs behind him. Dean’s almost to the door when he stops again.

“Hey, I met your kid today,” Dean says, and Dimarus visibly lightens up. 

“Emery, yes. How is he?”

“Much politer than Castiel.” Dimarus smiles but it falls quickly.

“I hope he’s doing alright. I’ve told him he can report to me about anyone giving him trouble but I’m not sure if he will. And I certainly can’t be watching out for him all the time.” Dean nods, looking down at his feet. “I hope _you_ didn’t give him a hard time.” Dean looks up and finds Dimarus’ eyes narrowed and searching. 

Dean balks. “What? I didn’t – I’d never do that. I’m not some uncivilised scum.”

Dimarus laughs. “Did you just call our men ‘uncivilised scum’?” Dean opens his mouth a few times before answering.

“No.” Dimarus shakes his head but the smile lingers. “Look, I’ll keep an eye out for anyone giving him trouble.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Dimarus says, voice sincere.

“And I’m sure he’ll be okay. He’s a good fighter. Just like you told me.” Dimarus offers him a quick nod before Dean opens the door and steps out into the hall. 

The moment he spots Castiel standing across the hall with his arms crossed, he remembers what Dimarus had said. His eyes immediately flick to the bare skin of Castiel’s wrists but he can’t see anything. He can feel Castiel’s own eyes on him then and he meets them only for a second before looking away. 

It’s not exactly time for dinner but Dean doesn’t feel like doing anything else. He sends one of the guards to the kitchen to tell Hermana he’ll be having it early in his rooms. 

It’s a relief to finally slump down behind his own desk once he gets there, putting his feet up and loosening the top buttons on his jerkin and doublet. Castiel stands awkwardly in the doorway – the three remaining guards standing behind him. Dean doesn’t say anything, waiting to see what he’ll do.

After a few moments of looking around the room Castiel moves – always light on his feet – to stand beside his desk but his eyes are scanning the bookshelf behind Dean. 

“You can take as many books from the library as you like. But those are mine,” Dean says. It’s as if he doesn’t even hear him at all for Castiel takes a step closer and grabs a book from the shelf. Dean closes his eyes for half a second before pushing himself up from his chair. “Are you going to listen to anything I say?”

Castiel’s eyes turns on him, wide and innocent. “I’m not taking it. Just looking. You didn’t say I couldn’t look.” And then, with that turns his eyes back to the book he’s holding gently in his palms. Dean finally notices what it is.

It’s a book of poems, nothing special about it, except that Dean’s mother gave it to him. He suddenly doesn’t like Castiel’s hands touching it at all – no matter how gentle. “Give me that.” Dean reaches out and takes it from Castiel, placing it down on his desk. “These are mine. You can get your own later.”

Castiel’s hands are still poised in the air, as though they’re still holding the book. Before he can do anything more infuriating, the doors out in his dining hall open, the guard he sent to the kitchen before and a few servants wheeling in the dinner. 

They both exit the room, Dean closing his door behind him with a click. 

The servants silently go about their work, placing the food and plates down at the far end of the table. Dean observes Castiel staring at one of them – and when Dean follows his gaze it ends on Alissande, who in turn occasionally glances over to Castiel. 

Dean thinks for a moment before remembering she was one of the maids he sent to have Castiel’s wounds cleaned properly in the baths this morning. Which means she would’ve seen Castiel naked’s body. Dean feels the urge to pull her aside and ask her if it’s true – for he certainly trusts her word over any of the men’s. Does he really have all those scars? How many? 

But that wouldn’t be very subtle. And Dean doesn’t want Castiel to know that he’s searching for answers.

Alissande, with a polite smile, along with the rest of the servants bow quickly before heading back out and closing the doors behind them. The guards fan out, two standing with their backs to the wall behind Castiel – and two behind Dean. 

Dean takes a seat and watches as Castiel hesitantly takes the seat opposite. Just like breakfast and lunch, Castiel doesn’t start eating right away, his shoulders hunched and there is that boy again. There’s a hint of redness at the tips of his ears and when he glances up, his eyes are apprehensive. Dean has absolutely no clue what could possibly be wrong with him. He holds Castiel’s eyes and nods again, just as he did at lunch but Castiel only squirms in his seat. It’s only when Castiel cranes his head slightly a few times that Dean understands. 

He flicks his eyes up to one of the guard’s. “Leave the main doors open and wait in the hall.” The guard’s eyes widen but he nods. He signals to the guards behind Dean and walks towards the doors – opening them wide and standing in the hall, their backs to Dean and Castiel. They’re not gone. But they’re far enough away now that they can speak without anyone hearing. 

Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What is–-” 

“I’m uncomfortable with…” Castiel’s eyes are downcast as he gestures towards the food on the table.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You’re uncomfortable with people watching you eat?” he asks, his words coming slow. Castiel’s jaw clenches and when he meets Dean’s eyes they’re dark.

“Don’t mock me,” Castiel says, just low enough so the guards can’t hear and suddenly he’s not a boy anymore, even though his posture hasn’t changed. Dean sits back in his chair, hands raised as if to tame a wild animal.

“Woah, alright. Okay. I’m not mocking you. I’m just...trying to understand.”

Castiel shakes his head. “You wouldn’t.”

Dean bites his lip, supressing his irritation. “Try me.” Castiel glares at him in response. “Okay, I won’t ask then. But – ah – you seemed fine eating at lunch and with me this morning?”

“You are not somehow excluded from this, Dean–-” Castiel purses his lips, realising his mistake. But Dean doesn’t get angry. It sounded natural falling from Castiel’s lips. And his previous guard, Heymon, in private called him Dean all the time. Just the same as Mervyn and Sam. Only Dean hasn’t told Castiel that yet. “Your Highness,” Castiel emphasises. “It’s just much less uncomfortable with one set of eyes than five. And for your brother and his guard – they were engaged in their own conversation most of the time. And this is only the half--" Castiel bites his lips, cutting himself off.

Dean wants to ask more but he knows he won’t get anything now. More and more layers pile on. Or maybe – maybe it’s all tied together. Maybe he’s not just physically scarred. 

Dean nods. “Alright,” he responds, leaning forward to take some food for his plate. Castiel doesn’t look impressed but eventually grabs his own food. The rest of the dinner passes in silence and Dean tries his hardest not to watch Castiel but he can’t help his occasional glances. Castiel still doesn’t eat very much either, finishing far before Dean. 

When Dean’s finished he calls for the same guard to head to the kitchen for servants to collect the scraps and plates. 

Castiel watches silently until the guard leaves. “Is there anything more I have to do?” he asks. There’s no sign of any mocking in his tone, however. He only sounds tired. 

Dean lets out a deep breath. “Nothing more, today. Tomorrow, you will rise–-”

“–at dawn and promptly wake you so we can go about our day,” Castiel says. “If anything is ever wrong you will ring a bell and if I’m as quick as I was in the ring then hopefully we’ll never have any problems.” Dean promptly closes his mouth once he realises it’s still hanging open. “I understood the first time. Can I leave now?”

Dean’s face hardens again and anything akin to kindness he was directing towards Castiel is gone. He picks at the dirt under his fingernails, not meeting Castiel’s eyes as he says, “You could sleep in a cell if you want.”

Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, Castiel looks towards the arching windows at the end of the hall. It’s dark outside, the falling snow barely visible. Castiel’s mouth opens and closes a few times. 

Dean lets his eyes slip shut. “Just leave.” He hears no movement from the other side of the table and when he opens his eyes Castiel is still sitting, eyes down. Finally, he stands, but doesn’t immediately move away. He presses his fingertips to the tabletop.

“Thank you. For…” Castiel glances towards the guards at the end of the room and without meeting Dean’s eyes, turns and walks to his room, closing the door behind him. Dean closes his eyes again and rubs a hand over his face.

You’ll just have to prove him wrong, Dimarus had said. It might be harder than Dean originally thought. But he’ll do it nonetheless. He will.

 

______________________________________

 

The tears are streaming down his face as soon as the door is shut. Castiel leans against it, biting his lip so as to not make any noise. His face crumples and his hands tremble. Slowly and quietly he sinks to the floor. No amount of pressing on bruises can tear his mind away from the ache in his chest. 

He hears muffled voices of servants from behind the door and quickly pushes himself to his feet. He sniffs, wiping his face with his sleeve – although the tears don’t stop flowing – and makes his way to his bed. His bed. His bed with a proper mattress, already made, and a bed frame made of rich, polished wood. 

He stares at it for a few moments before stripping down to his undershirt and undergarments – careful not to disturb any of his unhealed bruises. 

The room is dark, the only light source being the moon shining through his windows. He doesn’t bother lighting any candles. 

He bites his lip again to stop his whimpers from falling as he climbs onto the bed and curls onto his side. 

It weighs on him now. Finally. This is it. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and with a heaviness in his chest, he wishes Michael was here. He would know what to do. He would’ve already learned the ins and outs of the castle and all its secrets, driven a sword through the heart of the king or whoever need be and burnt this place to the ground. 

Michael would punish him if he could see him now. 

_Please, Michael, I know I’m not strong like you, but I’m trying._

The heaviness weighs on him like a sack full of bricks. It aches and aches until his breathing evens out and his tears stop falling. 

For the first time in a very long time, he doesn’t dream of bloody feathers and chaos. He doesn’t dream of bruises and broken bones. 

He dreams of something else – an infuriating charming smile. One that he’ll forget he ever dreamt of by the morning.  

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel rises far before dawn. He feels as well rested as he’s ever been – sleeping through nine hours, completely undisturbed. His room is completely dark and so he indulges himself, lying in bed for a few more minutes to focus on healing some of the bruises on his body and very lightly healing the gash on his head. 

The temperature of the room finally hits him when he throws the blankets off. It’s nothing he’s not used to. But now he can do something about it. Slowly in the dark, Castiel finds his way to the fireplace and lights it, adding a few pieces of wood stacked beside it. 

He rubs his hands and feels the heat on his face before moving towards the right window, sitting cross legged in front of it. 

Posture straight, he rests his hands limply in his lap and lets his eyes fall closed. 

The fire slowly heats the room, warmth spreading over his limbs. He can hear the flicker of the flames, the sound of a bird outside the castle. But he doesn’t strain his ears or focus on where his body touches the floor. He just sits.

Time passes quickly and soon the first rays of light shine over the horizon. 

_“My little Castiel.” His mother caresses his cheek with the back of her hand, as the other cards through his wings, soft and gentle._

_The sun peeps over the horizon, shadows of the night receding as the soft purple and orange hues, glimmering with warmth, spill onto the land. A sunrise special to Iowan. A sunrise special to home._

_It really is a new day, he thinks._

_“You are so, so beautiful. Haven’t I always told you? I always knew you were destined for great things.” Castiel smiles, happy and wide. Finally, happy. Tears of joy stream down his face and his mother brushes them away. “I always knew,” she whispers._

Castiel smiles now at the memory and bites his lip when that very smile breaks. He brushes his own tears away with the pad of his thumb and opens his eyes. 

Dawn. Castiel rises from his position on the floor and changes back into his only pair of clothes. He looks towards the set of double doors. He looks back towards the horizon. 

 _I always knew._  

He takes a deep breath and walks towards the doors. A new day. He opens it – not bothering to stop when he sees a set of four different guards stationed just outside his door – rounds the table and reaches for Dean’s door. 

“You’re supposed to--"

Castiel’s already opened the door and entered before the guard can say anymore. With the light of dawn, streaming through the crack in Dean’s curtains he can see a clear outline in the large bed in the middle of the room.

The form shuffles for a moment and suddenly Dean’s peering up at him from under his blankets. They stare for a moment before Dean finally speaks. “You’re supposed to knock,” he says, and Castiel frowns looking back towards the door. The guards are still in their positions looking cautiously through at Castiel. 

“What good would that do?” Dean raises an eyebrow. 

“What?”

Castiel gestures to the door. “I said what good would that do. How am I supposed to get you up from knocking?”

Dean’s face is blank before his lips twist up into the smallest of smirks. “Right. Of course. Well, let me just get a few more winks of sleep and I’ll be right up.” He shuffles around, trying to get more comfortable.

“You clearly said that I was to rise at dawn and wake you. Am I not correct?” Castiel asks. 

“You are.” 

“Then get up.”

“I don’t exactly like that tone your using.” Castiel grits his teeth before walking towards the curtains and pulling them wide open. Dean blinks at the light, growing brighter and brighter as the sun moves up on the horizon. 

Castiel moves over towards Dean’s bedside and looks down at the prince. He squints back up at him. “Did you ever have any friends?”

Castiel startles at the question. No. Yes. Once. But it was a long time ago. Kyra and Elaria’s faces flash across his mind and it’s hard to stop himself from squeezing his eyes shut. 

Sudden anger wells up inside of him. _Your father did this_ , he thinks. _He took them away from me._ _Just like he took everyone else. Because he is either pure evil or an ignorant fool._

_But you never saw them die. They could still be out there._

Castiel swallows. “No.”

Dean hums. “Figures.” Castiel tightens his fists where they remain by his side. Luckily, Dean doesn’t notice. “Wait outside. I’ll get ready.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, walking back out of the room and closing the door softly with a click. The four guards stare at him. Castiel glares back until their eyes drop away one by one. 

Dean walks out a few minutes later, dressed and ready to go. He raises his eyebrows. “Well?”

 

______________________________________

 

They walk to the stables, Dean having chosen to train out in the fields this morning since the snow tampered off last night. It’s well and truly light now, already multiple guards and servants bustling about. 

The stables stretch on for nearly the entire width of the castle. There must be hundreds of horses in there. Dean leads them in quite a way before stopping by a stable with two horses. He opens it up and steps inside, gesturing for Castiel to follow.

Dean points towards the saddles hanging on the rails. “You know how to saddle a horse?”

“Of course.”

“This one’s yours.” Dean rests the palm of his hand on the neck of a beautiful, brown horse and runs his hand up and down a few times before moving to the other horse in the stable, a black mare. “Hey, baby, miss me?” he says, placing a hand on the horse’s nose. Castiel’s eyes widen ever so slightly at the scene in front of him. It’s not what he would expect from the prince. The horse nuzzles closer to him and Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah, me too, girl.”

Castiel quickly looks away, grabbing what he assumes is his saddle and walks back over to his own horse. He reaches out a hand to let the horse sniff it before giving it a scratch on the cheek. The horse blinks at him slowly. “At least they treat you well,” Castiel whispers, low enough so Dean can’t hear. A look over his shoulder shows only two guards standing outside of the stable. The others must have gone to fetch their own horses.

They saddle up quickly, Castiel finding himself glancing at Dean as he continues to coo at his horse. After he’s finished Dean grabs the reigns and leads it out of the stable, Castiel following close behind. Once the guards are all ready, they mount and head out.

It’s strange exiting the inner gates for the first time, especially without any shackles on his hands or feet. The landscape is as beautiful as it was the first time he saw it, hints of snow melting in the grass. The outer wall stands in the distance, looming high. Freedom stands beyond it, baiting, tempting.

He wonders what would happen if he was to pass through those walls and walk out into the world. Into freedom. He can’t remember what that feels like.

But he can’t do that. He can’t just leave. Not now.

He rips his gaze from the city beyond the wall and focuses back on the landscape in front of them. They’re heading to the east – towards the sea. A mile of grass stretches on before it hits the forest – the treeline of which is just less than a mile away from the edge of a cliff – the only place where the inner wall could not be built. Not that it worried anyone in the castle. The cliff is a straight drop into jagged rocks. 

They end up stopping by a few wooden posts, planted in the middle of a field, clearly put there for this purpose. Dismounting, they tie their horses to the posts and walk a few yards out into a space clear of any dirt or rocks. 

Castiel sits in the grass, hands in his lap. Dean shoots him a strange look – the same as yesterday when Castiel sat in the training hall – but eventually looks away.

“Should I show you what I can do?” Dean asks, motioning towards one of the guards. Castiel nods, watching as one guard steps forward and stands in front of Dean. He looks undoubtedly nervous. Perhaps he’s nervous about hurting Dean. Castiel wonders if they ever actually fight properly.

He doesn’t have to wait very long to find out – the guard swinging a few half-hard fists that Dean dodges easily before twisting the guard’s arm behind his back and shoving him to his knees. Dean lets go when the guard grunts and looks toward Castiel, only slightly panting. 

He’s impressed once again – but doesn’t let it show on his face. Instead, he asks, “Have you ever been in a real fight before?” Dean frowns.

“Does this not count?”

“No, I mean a fight with someone who is actually trying their hardest to hurt you?” Castiel asks, standing from his spot. 

Dean continues to frown. “Well…no.”

“Exactly.” Castiel walks over until he’s standing right in front of Dean. Dean looks as though he might take a step back but holds his ground. “Hit me.” 

“What?” 

“Hit me.” 

“I’m not falling into this trap again--”

“Forget about that for a second. Just hit me.” Dean waits a second before his fist tightens and his hand flies up – Castiel strikes it back down with his own hand, grabbing his wrist and holding it there as his other hands flies up to wrap around Dean’s neck. Dean steps backward with the momentum, his eyes wide. Castiel hears shuffling behind him and he lets go of Dean before any guards can try to restrain him for being a ‘threat’. 

Dean lifts a hand to touch his throat. 

“You’re quick. I’ll give you that. But you are quick for someone who’s trained with men holding out on their blows their entire life. Another disadvantage is that your quite big.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“No, I mean you’re big as in strong and tall. It’s good. But while you need some semblance of strength in a fight you also need to be quick and make your body as small a target as possible.”

Dean blinks. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” 

Castiel squints, head tilting to the side. “Practice.” Dean lets out a frustrated breath but points towards the guard he was facing before. “No, you’ll fight me for now. He’ll never be able to go his all on you. Too afraid of what you might do to him if he hurts you.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh, and you’re not?” Castiel keeps his face blank. Dean shoots him a dark look. “ _Right_.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Castiel says, and Dean huffs.

“Are you going to teach me or what?” Dean asks, his patience running thin. Castiel almost retorts that he needs to work on his patience too if he’s going to be the very best but bites his tongue.

“Of course. Let’s begin.”

 

______________________________________

 

Upon returning from their morning training session – which went a little better than he thought – Castiel finds one of the young maids from the baths waiting beside the dining table. 

She bows when she catches Dean’s eye. “Good morning, Your Highness.” Her voice is quiet but confident. Her light brown hair – pulled back by a string – falls down to her lower back.

“Alissande,” Dean says, shooting the maid a smile before facing Castiel. “She’s here for your measurements.”

Castiel frowns. “I thought you said I would be fitted properly after a week if you deemed me ‘fit for the role’,” Castiel responds. 

“My decision has changed. You will be fitted now.” 

“So, you deem me fit for the role?” Castiel asks, eyebrows raised. Dean shoots him a hard stare. 

“I have but that doesn’t mean you will be permanent so don’t get too ahead of yourself.” Dean smiles mockingly. “Now would you please,” he gestures towards the maid. “We only have limited time to eat and bathe before I have to attend a meeting.”

Castiel sighs and nods, walking over towards Alissande. He stands in front of her, hands behind his back and waits for her to start measuring. She reaches for something in a basket sitting on the ground beside her and as she straightens back up she bites her lip, hesitant. Her tone sounds almost apologetic, when she finally speaks. “You will have to remove your clothing. Except for your undergarments, of course.” 

Castiel’s chest tightens. He glances towards the four guards waiting just inside the closed door and towards Dean who sits at the table, idly picking at his sleeves. He feigns disinterest but Castiel can see it there. He must know.

Castiel swallows. “You don’t expect me to undress in front of all of you?” he says, gesturing to the guards. 

Dean purses his lips. “Why not?”

Castiel huffs. “Privacy, perhaps?” Dean doesn’t take his eyes away from Castiel. He grinds his teeth. “I’m not undressing in front of all of you. I will do it in my own private chambers.” Much to Castiel’s surprise, Dean doesn’t seem to be offended by his tone or by him defying his orders. He only lifts his chin as if mulling it over. 

He glances to Alissande. “Are you comfortable with being alone with him?” She hesitates a moment before nodding and meeting Castiel’s eyes again. “Leave the door ajar and be quick. I have a meeting, remember?”

Castiel clenches his jaw, nodding. Dean waves his hand dismissively as he turns and heads into his own chambers. Castiel takes his cue and enters his room, leaving the door slightly ajar after Alissande enters with her basket. 

“You don’t have to take everything off if you don’t like,” her small voice comes from behind him. Castiel starts at the words, opening and closing his mouth in an attempt to find the right thing to say. “I mean, you can keep your undershirt on if it would make you more comfortable.”

Castiel finds that he doesn’t need to say anything else. She saw him in the baths. She won’t push this. He nods and starts to undress until he’s left with his undershirt and undergarments. Nothing to see. It’s a small relief.

She goes about her jobs quickly, sizing up seemingly every body part and writing it down in a little book with neat cursive script. When she does touch him it’s light and gentle and he only jerks away the first few times. 

And just like that, she’s finished, packing her things but before she can make it to the door, he speaks, “Alissande.” She turns, eyes wary. 

“Yes?”

Castiel looks down at the floor, flipping the words over in his mind. “What’s…what’s he like? The prince?”

Alissande’s eyes are soft. “He is kind.” Castiel’s fists clench in his lap. “But…” He lifts his gaze in time to see her eyes tinted with sadness. “He is lonely.” And with that she is making her way out the door, closing it firmly shut behind her.  

He washes quickly but thoroughly with the limited warm water he has already waiting for him in a bucket beside his bath. He dresses back into the clothing he was just wearing and walks back into the hall – Dean and breakfast already waiting for him. 

Kind. Lonely. Castiel doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t know if he trusts her. But as he looks to the door, the guards are already waiting out in the hall, their backs to Dean and Castiel. 

Dean doesn’t mention it as he takes a seat in front of him and nods his head towards the food.

There are no less prodding eyes on Castiel than the day before when he follows Dean into a room full of generals. The Captain of the Guard gives him another once over as he stands in his place directly behind the prince but nothing more. He is almost certain that the captain and Dean have heard of his scars now. It unsettles him. But he can’t do anything about it. So, he tries to push it out of his mind.

The meeting mostly discusses the festival coming up soon. A festival celebrating the anniversary of when the angels were wiped out. Castiel’s interested to hear what they have to say until he gathers that all they’re really talking about is the schedule and set up – nothing about the actual history of the festival. 

He does catch, however, that Dean will need to visit some manor tomorrow to organise a few things for said festival with the lord who lives there. It’s about all Castiel really takes in from the meeting – other than noting once again that Dean doesn’t say all that much. He would’ve thought the Crown Prince would have more authority on things. Perhaps Dean is shy, although every single interaction he’s had with him so far would say otherwise. 

He is fairly relieved when the lengthy meeting comes to an end and even more so when it’s time to head to lunch. He’s had enough of generals and the captain shooting him strange glances. 

“So, how was your morning, Cas?” Sam asks, raising his voice above the noise of other men, before Castiel has barely taken his seat at the table. 

“It was fine, Prince Sam. Although, your brother certainly takes his time to get up,” Castiel responds, firmly fixing his eyes on the young prince. Sam smiles but it seems to come up short, his head inclining, hair flopping slightly in his face.

“No,” he says, mouth tilted down into a frown now, “Dean’s always up bright and early.” 

Castiel pauses, staring at Sam for a few moments before sliding his eyes over to Dean – who sits comfortably in his chair, arms splayed in front of him on the table, eyes flat and uncaring – always uncaring – looking right back at Castiel. 

It shouldn’t come as a shock – that Dean is trying to make everything hard for him – but strangely it does. And other than that he didn’t think of Dean as the type to be up bright and early. Or in other words, he didn’t think Dean would be so disciplined. 

Castiel drags his eyes away from Dean. “And how has your day been, Prince Sam?” 

Sam exchanges a look between his brother before brushing over the whole moment and answering Castiel’s question. Dean doesn’t look too happy when Sam continues on with more and more questions to Castiel about which places he’s been to in the castle and has he borrowed any books yet and if so he has to borrow these ones and on and on. Castiel politely responds when he has to and nods his head along the rest of the time, making it his duty not to spare a glance for Dean.

And definitely not for when their food comes. He can do that. He can eat in front of these few people without needing Dean’s permission. 

But the food does come and Castiel feels that tightening in his stomach and his hands won’t move from his lap. 

_“Well, we’re all hungry. Didn’t you think about that, Castiel?”_

He doesn’t glance at Dean. 

_“No buts’, Castiel. You should be the last person to have any. You will not have any until you’re assigned, are we clear?”_

But then a plateful of bread is being nudged towards him. Castiel stares at it – resisting – until he can’t – and he looks up to see Dean’s eyes focused on the food in front of him, looking as though he never did anything at all. His stomach unknots. 

Castiel watches as Sam smiles and laughs as they eat, eyes full of joy and kindness and attempts to think of Dean in the same way. He can imagine the smile – he’s seen it. Even a forced laugh but he can’t imagine the joy. And the kindness – even after Dean’s little gestures to help him and Alissande’s words – he can’t imagine that it comes from sympathy. More out of obligation. 

Castiel finishes first, pushing his plate slightly forward on the table and leaning backwards in his chair. He barely has a second to relax until a plateful of meat is being pushed across the table towards him. Dean raises his eyebrows. 

“You’ll need something more substantial,” Dean says, almost like a challenge. So, he’s noticed. Castiel wishes perhaps that he would have this conversation alone with Dean but avoiding it – showing any sign of hesitance over the topic – will only lead Dean to become suspicious. 

So, Castiel pushes the plate back towards Dean before replying with a shake of his head, “Oh, I don’t eat meat.” Dean barely reacts but Mervyn and Sam stop eating beside him. 

“You don’t eat meat?” Dean asks, leaning his elbows on the table. 

“No,” Castiel responds, shrugging. Dean lets out a frustrated breath.

“Why not?” 

“My parents raised me that way.” 

“Isn’t that an angel thing?” Sam’s small voice chimes in from across the table. Dean glares at Sam but the younger boy keeps his eyes on Castiel, oblivious to his own question’s implications. 

But Castiel takes it. “It is, Prince Sam,” Castiel starts, Dean’s gaze falling on him once again, “Although, they’re not the only culture that doesn’t eat meat. Did you know that in many cultures in Yeoji, they don’t eat meat either? Some cultures even go as far as to only eat food that grows from the ground. It’s very interesting actually, I’m sure you could find some books on it in the library.” 

None on the culture of the angels, however. None on how they lived in the sky and guided the souls of those animals on earth to paradise and how when they fell, taking the life of a human was just as appalling as taking the life of an animal. They were the protectors after all. Castiel doubts there would be very many books on Yeoji, the Eastern Continent, or on any other cultures, for that matter, either. A short look in the library had him coming up short on anything that wasn’t to do with their own continent.

Other than the shine in Sam’s eyes and the, “Oh,” that falls from his lips after Castiel’s little talk, the rest of the table is silent.

Dean speaks first. “How do you know all that?” 

And now to complete his story of half-truths but mostly lies, Castiel responds, “My mother and father were travellers when they were young. They’ve been far and wide and learnt of many different cultures and religions.” In fact, all of the angels were taught of different cultures and religions when they were growing up. It was as important as learning about their own history. Of course, all the books were burnt to the ground along with everything else when the humans invaded Iowan. “They found along the way that they could no longer take the poor souls of animals for their own benefit and stopped. And for myself, I’ve never known any different.” 

Now Dean’s eyes turn curious and for the first time since he’s been here, the prince doesn’t try to hide it. 

“Hey, Cas!” Sam suddenly looks excited. “You know we have a big pen outside with all the animals. Would you like to see them? Dean, please let him see them,” Sam says, tugging at Dean’s sleeve. 

Dean slowly drags his eyes away and down towards Sam. “Castiel doesn’t want to go to the pen, Sam. We have things to–-”

“I would love to go to the pen with you, Prince Sam. If that is alright with your brother of course,” Castiel interrupts, a carefully constructed smile on his face. 

“Yes, of course he’s okay with it,” Sam says, denying Dean from protesting. “Let’s go!” Sam pushes himself up from his chair and starts walking quickly out of the room, Mervyn right on his tail. 

Castiel fixes his eyes back on Dean who pushes himself up from his seat but instead of walking after Sam, places his palms on the table and meets Castiel’s unflinching stare.

“You get more interesting every day don’t you, Castiel?”

“Should I take that as a compliment?” Castiel asks but Dean’s face doesn’t shift.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” he says, before removing his palms from the wood and with his hands behind his back, leaves Castiel behind at the table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed! Chapters will be posted every Saturday ~8/9pm AEST time.
> 
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	5. Chapter 5

Dean watches from a few yards back with the other guards as Sam sticks his hand through the gaps in the wooden beams to touch one of the pigs in the pen. Castiel kneels beside him, chattering away and Dean feels his chest tightening at the scene – at seeing how well they get along. 

Not that he wants Castiel as a friend – not after the last few days at least – but why is he so polite to Sam and not him? Castiel is his personal guard not Sam’s. Although, he supposes he knows the answer to that. He hasn’t exactly given Castiel a warm welcome but what is the man supposed to expect if he can’t be respectful to Dean? 

“They brought you in in a crate?” Sam’s giggling drifts across the yard. Dean clenches his jaw. 

“With this one, yes. I woke up to him trying to lick my face,” Castiel responds, eyes bright as he entertains the young prince. Castiel joins Sam now in reaching through to scratch the pig’s chin.

It’s a strange thing. He’s never met any human who doesn’t eat meat. Not that he’s travelled very far outside Anathee but if anything, it serves his choice. Castiel’s not a threat. The man doesn’t even kill animals. 

Although, there is a slight flaw in his argument. The angels never killed animals. And yet, they captured and killed his own mother. They were planning to wage war against his father to take Torrin for their own. It’s only a slight flaw, however, because Castiel’s not an angel. He’s just a man. 

“We should name him,” Sam says, breaking Dean out of his reverie. Castiel tilts his head to the side in thought. It reminds him of a bird. 

Dean shakes his head, stepping forward. “You shouldn’t name him, Sam. That way you’ll get too attached. Just like with your horse.” Sam’s smile falters as he looks at Dean, his lips pursing in a thin line. 

“I suppose you’re right.” Strangely, Castiel doesn’t object. 

“Come on now, Prince Sam.” Mervyn steps in from where he was waiting patiently and places a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It is time for us to meet with your father.” 

Dean’s eyes flutter close for a moment and his hands clench into fists where he holds them behind his back. It never hurts any less. Sam visits their father a few times a week. His brother tells him their father only asks after how he is doing with his lessons and his training. Only. Dean rarely sees him unless he’s in trouble or if he’s lucky enough to be invited to attend a meeting with the king. 

He sighs, saying goodbye to his brother as he goes. Castiel’s eyes are already trained on him when he glances over. Dean watches as they flick down to where his hands are still clenched behind his back. He swallows, letting his hands fall limply to his side. 

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel almost feels sorry for Dean when he falls with a thud onto his back for the third time. 

“You need to stay calm. You’ll use up all your energy otherwise,” Castiel says, spinning the wooden sword in his hands. Dean puts a hand out when a guard attempts to rush towards him. His clothes are dusted with the dirt of the training hall floor. 

“I am calm,” Dean grits out, pushing himself back up to his feet. The hall is getting dark, the sun moving lower on the horizon and casting the castle in intricate shadows. It’s a blessing for it means they will be done here very soon. 

“You’re not calm.”

Dean’s mouth starts to open to retort but at the last second, he changes his mind. He closes his eyes, instead, and takes a deep breath. 

Castiel’s eyebrows pull together at the scene. Michael would have punished him severely if he had taken a moment for himself. 

He takes a few steps forward, bends and swipes Dean’s legs out from under him.

“ _What_ \--” The breath is knocked out of Dean when he lands on his back again. 

“In a real fight, your opponent won’t give you time to collect yourself.” Dean’s up on his feet almost as soon as the words have come out of his mouth. He throws his sword forcefully to the ground, taking two steps towards Castiel and roughly grabs the front of his jacket with both hands, his jaw clenched and eyes hard as he stares him down. This time Castiel restrains himself.

The prince must recognise his mistake a moment later, his eyes flicking over to where the guards stand, shifting on their feet. It’s not a good look for him. He should be gracious in defeat, just like all of the other men. He wonders if Dean’s always had this anger simmering inside of him. He wonders if anyone’s seen it before or if he himself is only just bringing it out. Castiel lowers his voice into a whisper. 

“You’re not used to losing, are you?” Dean clenches his jaw but he lets go of Castiel’s jacket.

“You…” Dean starts, pausing for a moment to smooth Castiel’s jackets down, a false smile on his face, “Don’t know as much as you think you do.” There’s a false smile in his eyes too as he takes a step back. “We’re finished here,” he says, that voice of authority back again. The guards all scramble to quickly pack up the few weapons that are lying around, clearly not wanting to do anything that might make the prince turn on them. 

Castiel overhears Dean tell one of the guards waiting outside their chambers that the dinner shall be taken to each of their rooms separately before entering into their shared hall. 

Dean pauses at his own door, not meeting Castiel’s eyes as he says, “There will be no training in the morning. You’ll rise as normal and we’ll be heading with Sam to the Arderne manor.” 

Castiel nods and without another word they both enter their own private chambers. 

He takes the wooden stool from next to his bath and sits in front of the fireplace – already lit with a few mounds of wood beside it. He stares into the flames and tries to rearrange his thoughts. 

He’s tired. And he’s not hungry but he has to wait for dinner to arrive anyway. He just wants to sleep as peacefully as he did the night before. Somehow, he doesn’t think he’ll have as much luck tonight. Not as he stares into the fire. 

 

______________________________________

 

_He’s drowning. The moonlight from above is slowly dissipating as more and more bodies are thrown onto the pile. The weight on his limbs crushes him. He fights for air but with every second it gets harder to breathe, his chest caving in on itself. Another body is thrown onto the mound and blood gushes from the slash in their neck down onto his face._

_He cries, thrashing his head from side to side to try and shake it off – to try and spit the feathers from his mouth. But it doesn’t stop. The blood slides down his face, into his eyes and his mouth. He chokes on it. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t –_

Castiel’s eyes flutter open. Panic surges in his throat as he lies frozen _._ He can’t see – it’s so dark. _Where am I?_ He pushes himself to a sitting position and that’s when he sees it – a small dying fire in a fireplace. _Dean. The castle._

He raises a hand to his face. No blood. 

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. He’s okay. He’s safe. 

If someone else was to lie in the bed beside him, they wouldn’t even know of his nightmare. He’s always suffered in silence. And that’s the way it should be. His weakness is his enemy’s strength. And in this castle, everyone is his enemy. 

He lies back down on the mattress and closes his eyes once again. He won’t sleep. He’ll wait, silent and still, until dawn. 

 

______________________________________

 

Dean opens his eyes when he hears the telltale click of his door being opened. He wasn’t exactly asleep – he’d woken a while ago. And maybe it’s petty of him but if Castiel isn’t going to respect him then he has no problem making things harder.

The man in question strides in, looking at least presentable and ready for their short trip, and comes to a standstill right beside his bed. He doesn’t say a word for a moment, simply staring down at Dean as Dean himself squints back up at him.

“Do you remember yesterday when I told you to knock?” Dean says, and with his eyes finally adjusting to the dark, Castiel looks even more irritated than he did yesterday. 

“Do you remember, Your Highness,” Castiel adds with a smile, “yesterday when your brother told me that you were always up ‘bright and early’?”

He almost can’t believe it. The nerve this man has to not only talk to him like this once but consistently is astounding. He kicks back his sheets and stands level with Castiel, leaning further into his personal space. 

“You’re forgetting I’m the prince here. Respect me and we’ll get along just fine. Disrespect me and I’ll have no problem throwing you back in that cell.” Castiel barely responds nor does he move from where he stands. “And remember that this role is one of privilege. You have no idea how lucky you are.” _I saved you,_ he wants to say. _I saved you from punishment and this is what you give me in return?_

Castiel’s eyes stay the same – unrelenting. 

He opens his mouth and Dean braces for a retort but instead, “Breakfast is ready in the hall once you’ve finished here. I’ll be waiting outside.”

With barely a creak from the floorboards, Castiel leaves his chambers, closing the door softly behind him. 

Dean stares at it. He shouldn’t even have to deal with this. Castiel should already be locked back up in that cell. So why isn’t he? He already knows the answer to that. This was his choice. If it backfires on him, well, it won’t look good. It may ruin everything. 

On the other hand, however, this is the man whose body is apparently covered head to toe in scars. The man who is the best fighter Dean has ever seen in his life and who isn’t afraid of beatings. The man who wouldn’t take the soul of an animal but looks as though he could kill a thousand men with the snap of his fingers. 

Nothing interesting ever happens in this castle anymore. It’s not his fault if alongside proving his worth that he wants to indulge in figuring this mystery out.

 

______________________________________

 

To save time, the horses are already saddled and ready to go when Dean and Castiel join Sam and Mervyn at the stables. Dean’s own four guards along with four more will also be travelling with them. The Arderne manor is only a few miles away and is rather secure – having their own land outside of the capital given to them by Dean’s father. Today, Dean’s been tasked with the job of making sure everything is arranged for the upcoming festival celebrating the anniversary of the war between the humans and angels in which the humans, of course, came out victorious. 

He’s never really liked the festival. It celebrates a day that is far too close to the night that his mother was taken – the night everything was taken away from him – and it’s all he’s ever reminded of. 

“Mervyn, can I please ride with Castiel?” Sam’s voice pipes up. Castiel stands awkwardly beside him, eyes wide. 

“Oh, I’m sure it would be better if you rode with your own personal guard,” Castiel responds, and Dean lets out a small breath of relief. He loves his little brother. And he would do anything to keep him safe. But since Castiel has arrived all he’s done is looked up at the man like he’s one of the gods themselves and it’s starting to get on his nerves. 

“It’s only a few miles away,” Sam says, grabbing the reigns of his horse and pulling it over to Castiel. “And Mervyn doesn’t mind, right Mervyn?” 

Mervyn nods. “Of course, I don’t mind, Prince Sam. If that is what you wish.”

Dean feels as if his eyes might roll out of his head. He doesn’t bother commenting, stepping into the stirrups and lifting up and over until he’s seated on his own horse. The rest of the guards follow and Dean watches out of the corner of his eye as Castiel helps Sam up into the saddle before following up after him.

He narrows his eyes at the guarded discomfort on Castiel’s face as he takes the reigns in his hands. At least that’s what it looks to be. He didn’t seem uncomfortable with the horses the other day so it might be worry at having to handle the responsibility of the young prince. But he doesn’t strike Dean as the type of person to worry about that. So…

Castiel’s eyes sweep over to find his but Dean quickly looks away. They wait for the last of the guards to mount before they take off towards the outer wall. 

 

______________________________________

 

Leda Arderne and her three younger siblings – two Sam’s age and one younger – are already waiting for them when they reach the manor. 

Four of the guards stay on their horses, fanning out around the premises while the other four join Dean, Castiel, Sam and Mervyn on the ground. Leda greets Dean with a polite curtsy and kiss on the hand before Dean rolls his eyes and pulls her in for a hug. 

“It’s been a while,” she says, a smile in her voice. It feels nice to hear it. He doesn’t get to see her too often now. They used to spend more time together when they were younger – running around and finding different ways to scare their younger siblings. And…well, other things. 

But mostly Dean just misses being able to blurt out to someone how he really feels about the castle and his father and being a prince. Leda always listens and always understands – growing up in a manor might be far from a castle but the formalities are still there. And if anything, far worse for a woman. Leda always lets him know that with a flick on the ear when he complains too much about mundane ‘man’ things. 

Leda greets Sam the same before eyeing Castiel – who stands with his hands behind his back and posture as straight as board. “And who’s this?” she asks, and the slight uptilt to her voice has the good feeling in his chest at seeing her again slowly dissipate. 

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Castiel. I am Dean’s new personal guard,” he says, sharp and short, bowing slightly at the waist.

Leda stares at him, eyebrows raised before laughing into her hand. Castiel’s eyes flick to Dean. Dean only smirks back at his failings. 

“Oh, um,” Castiel mumbles, standing back up straight and hesitantly nodding his head, something like shame flashing over his features. Dean’s smirk fades. Another thing to commit to memory. He’s only seen Castiel self-assured since he’s first met the man but this…

Mervyn bends and takes Leda’s hand, placing a soft kiss as she bows back. Castiel’s eyes dart back and forth across the ground as if pretending not to notice that this is what he should be doing. 

It reminds him of Castiel’s discomfort with Sam wanting to ride with him. Perhaps he’s uneasy with closeness. No, he’s been in Dean’s personal space in the last few days and hasn’t seemed bothered. Or maybe it’s physical touch. Something to do with the supposed scars Dean still hasn’t seen? But he’s fine training with Dean. Perhaps more intimate touch? For instance, kissing Leda on the hand or sitting pressed up against Sam. Because their touches at training certainly aren’t intimate. He’ll have to test that theory later. 

“Here, Castiel. Let me show you around the garden,” Sam says, tugging at Castiel’s sleeve. Castiel looks to Dean, eyes questioning. 

“Is your father waiting for us?” Dean asks Leda. She shakes her head.

“No, he’s still in a meeting. You’ve come a bit early so we have some time.” Dean waves a dismissive hand at Castiel and he finally lets Sam drag him towards the garden, the boy yelling at Leda’s siblings to follow. 

“So,” Leda starts and Dean already knows where this is going, “Your new personal guard.” Dean grunts. Leda smiles, tangling a finger in her braided, black hair that reaches down to her lower back. “Well, _I’m_ excited. It’s about time you brought over a handsome, young man.”

“Please, Leda. Don’t do this to me,” Dean says, eye pleading. Leda crosses her arms over her chest before realising they’re in company and quickly dropping them. 

“Sounds like someone doesn’t like his new guard.”

“That’s putting it lightly.”

“Well, why not get rid of him? I’ll have him.” Leda laughs when Dean nudges her side with a glare. “I’m serious. You’re the oh so amazing Crown Prince. Get rid of him and find someone else.”

“I can’t.” Now Castiel sits in the grass with all of the children around him, Sam crouching beside him as he tells them something. 

“Why not?”

“Because--” Dean sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Because my father gave me this responsibility and I decided to choose someone who tried to rob something from us.” Leda’s eyes go wide. 

“What?” One of Leda’s younger sisters plucks a flower from the garden and brings it to Castiel. Castiel stares at it, his eyes unblinking before he gives her a smile – a strained one. 

“Yes, I know, okay? But you should’ve seen him, Leda. He’s the best fighter I’ve ever seen and I couldn’t miss that opportunity. And if I did get rid of him how would that make me look? Like a fucking fool, that’s what,” Dean punctuates, raising his voice. “My father wouldn’t trust me with anything ever again.” Leda’s hand on his arm reminds him to take a breath. He’s in company – the guards, while out of earshot, aren’t far behind. He can’t be heard speaking ill of the king. “And he’s interesting.”

Leda narrows her eyes. 

Dean huffs. She’s the only one who seems to understand how boring his life can be – _even_ if she flicks him in the ear when he complains too much. “You know what I mean.” Leda pauses, eyes fixing on where Castiel still sits. 

He holds a pebble in his fingers, showing it to the children. He then takes the pebble and rubs it together between his hands before holding both palms up to reveal the pebble has disappeared. The children gasp. Castiel starts to speak, Dean unable ot hear from this distance, but he’s leaning down towards Leda’s younger brother and suddenly reaching into the boy’s breast pocket where he pulls the pebble out and holds it for all to see. Sam claps his hands furiously while one of Leda’s sister’s shrieks. The other two just sit in awe. Castiel bends at the waist with a smile – but it’s once again, not genuine, only polite. Dean knows by now what is and isn’t a genuine smile. 

“Definitely.”

“Huh?” Dean says, spinning his head to see Leda still with her eyes fixed on Castiel, a fond smile on her face. Dean clenches his jaw.

“Do you think your father will be ready now?”

“I think you should introduce me properly,” she says and Dean gapes at her.

“You saw it yourself. He clearly doesn’t know how to treat a lady properly.”

“Not everyone is a royal, Dean. And I don’t mind. Royal men are all the same.” Dean stares at her. Leda huffs. “Not you. You know which men I mean. And besides, any man who can charm the children is a man I’d like to be introduced to.”

“He’s a thief.” Dean throws his arms out to the side. 

Leda shrugs. “He can’t be that bad. Oh look, he’s coming back over.”

Sam and Leda’s siblings have run off somewhere else and Castiel is in fact making his way back towards them.

“Uh, Castiel is it?” Leda steps forward, drawing Castiel’s attention to her. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Leda. Eldest daughter of Lord Arderne.”

Castiel’s eyes widen before he bows. “Uh, yes. Of course. I apologise for my behaviour before. I’ve never been taught the proper ways to treat a noble woman let alone a beautiful, noble woman.” 

“Gods fucking help me--” Dean mutters, Leda laughing loudly over the top of him, glancing at him with a warning in her eyes. Castiel must not have heard for he doesn’t spare Dean a glance. 

“Why thank you, Castiel. You’re absolutely forgiven.”

“Would you look at that?” Dean says, gesturing towards the manor. “Your father is finished with his meeting and waiting for us. Leda how about you go gather the littles ones.” Leda purses her lips, quietly disintegrating Dean with her eyes before she bows once again and walks away. 

Castiel watches after her but Dean doesn’t see any interest of _that_ kind in his eyes. But that doesn’t mean anything. “You don’t go near her or--”

“I won’t,” Castiel cuts him off, voice harsh as he begins to walk towards the manor. Dean stops him with a hand on his chest before Castiel’s own hand is quickly shoving Dean’s away but he does stop in his tracks. For a second, Dean forgets what he was going to say remembering Castiel and his seeming discomfort with intimate touch. 

Dean shakes his head. “I’ve seen you, okay? I’ve seen you now with every other fucking person that you’ve met and you seem to have no problem respecting them. Except for me, of course.”

“You haven’t earnt my respect,” Castiel responds, gritting his teeth.

“Your respect?” Dean says, lips pulling wide in an incredulous smile.

Castiel doesn’t flinch. “We are both the same, aren’t we? Just because you were born in a castle doesn’t make you any more special.” He walks off before Dean can reply. 

He almost laughs. Almost. Because that’s not what he meant. Is Castiel not remembering who the thief is here? The thief – the _thief_ – that he was willing to respect before he came out of that crate spewing his vitriol all over him. This has never been about Dean being the prince and Castiel being his mere servant. Why would he think that? Or maybe this is him just being petty about having got caught with those jewels in the first place and taking it out on the closest royal possible. 

He can see in the distance Lord Arderne starting to wave him over. He shakes his head, beginning to head over, all the while restraining the urge to glare in Castiel’s direction.

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel knows he’s treading a thin line. If Michael were here he would beat Castiel blue for running his mouth. He’s lucky he hasn’t been sent to the dungeons permanently. And yet with that threat in mind he can’t keep his mouth shut. Or perhaps it’s because Dean’s threats are empty. If Dean was going to send him to the dungeons or dropped him from his position he would’ve done so by now.

 _But that doesn’t mean you can keep being reckless_. He has to be better. He has to just suck it up and hold his tongue until he is able to get out of here – something that will now be increasingly hard with his position as Dean’s personal guard. He’ll just have to be patient. 

The meeting with Leda’s father goes quickly, Castiel not even bothering to listen as they ramble on about the upcoming festival. The festival Castiel will have to attend. He’s heard that there are sawed off wings hanging on the walls in King Winchester’s throne room. Just thinking about it makes him sick. He hopes they don’t hang any up for the festival. He couldn’t bear to look at them.

He puts on his best charming smile – which is mostly strained with effort – for Leda when they take their leave, feeling Dean’s gaze piercing through his skull. 

Sam insists on riding with him again – only making Castiel’s palms sweat and his stomach tighten. He managed on the way here so he can do it on the way back. At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

He takes a deep breath once Sam is seated in front of him, back pressed to his chest. It doesn’t go unnoticed the way Dean glances towards him. Castiel clenches his fists over the reigns. He can’t let Dean see this. He’ll only use it against him. 

But part of him already knows he’s lost this one. That Dean’s already noticed his apprehension towards Sam riding with him just as he noticed it with the way he acted towards Leda. He’ll have to try harder to suppress it. Even if it makes his chest cave in with anxiety. 

On the ride back to the castle, he focuses on Sam’s head in front of him. Sam, the young prince, who’s smile is bright and eyes are wide. Sam. Not anyone else. 

Not Michael.

 

______________________________________

 

The arrow hits the bullseye painted in the middle of the target. Dean turns, a grin on his face. 

“Your form could be better,” Castiel says, staring at Dean’s feet.

“Better?” Dean scoffs. “Joren trained me. You know, the guy who’s the best archer in this castle.” It’s late in the afternoon, the four guards accompanying Dean standing far away, back near the training hall. It’s a relief to Castiel. No matter how much he despises Dean, he despises them more and the way they just silently follow them around everywhere. And makes things infinitely harder for him. In his stay so far, there have been no possible time to slip away. Not that it would be easy without them anyway. He’s practically attached at the hip to the prince bar his lessons in the library.

“When was the last time you trained with him?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. A while ago.”

“Then that’s why. Your form has become lazy.”

“Lazy? My arrow hit the middle. I swear, you’re just--”

“Fine. Do it again,” Castiel says, standing directly behind Dean. Dean sighs before setting back up and pulling another arrow back on his bow. Just as he’s about to let it go, Castiel lightly shoves him in the shoulder. 

The arrow goes flying past the target. “What are you--”

“Clearly from this wonderful display your form is lazy.”

“You pushed me. How am I supposed to--”

“I barely touched you.”

“You just--”

“Do you want me to help you or not?” Castiel says, restraining the urge to let his anger seep through. Dean pinches his nose, eyes falling closed. He carelessly throws his arms out and Castiel knows it’s the best he’s going to get.

“Okay. Give me the bow.” Frowning, he hands the bow to Castiel. Castiel grabs an arrow from the small barrel and gets into a stance mimicking Dean’s own. “Now since you’ve been taught by the finest you should know the proper form. So, correct me.” 

Castiel watches Dean out of the corner of his eye as he shrugs and step forward towards him. He pauses for a second sweeping his eyes over Castiel’s form. He kicks Castiel’s front foot lightly with his own until it’s in the correct position. He walks around the other side of Castiel, taking note of how he grips a bow. But then he stops, his gaze landing on Castiel’s face. 

He takes a slow step forward into Castiel’s personal space and gently with both of his hands, lifts Castiel’s elbow until it’s in the correct position. He holds it there and Castiel knows what he’s doing. His chest tightens and his legs threaten to carry him away from the touch. But he grits his teeth and doesn’t move. 

Dean rounds behind him again and with one last adjusting of his shoulders, he steps back, satisfied with his work. Castiel finally twists his neck around to look at Dean. He lets go of the arrow. “So, you do know the proper form.” It hits the bullseye. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Now, you are just showing off.”

“Which means, that you’ve proved my point. You were being lazy.” Castiel hands the bow back to him. “Now show me what you look like when you aren’t being lazy.” Dean grabs the bow from him and swaps positions with Castiel, aiming at the next target. 

Once more Castiel lightly shoves him in the shoulder just as he’s about to shoot. It doesn’t hit the bullseye but it does hit the target, not flying off like the last one. Better. After that, he shoots arrow after arrow. All with perfect form – all hitting the bullseye.

But now Castiel can barely concentrate, only being able to focus on Dean’s gentle touch. It was foolish of him to let anyone see his weakness, let alone the man who currently hates him _and_ spends the most time with him. But somehow, a small part of him had wanted to lean into that touch. To let himself be touched the way Dean touched him. 

Castiel closes his eyes. _Don’t be a fool_ , he thinks. What would Michael say? Upon hearing his thoughts now? He would tell Castiel how weak he is. How vulnerable he will become if he continues to think this way. 

Either way, even if he liked Dean he couldn’t even have his touch that way here. He would without a doubt be sentenced to the dungeons indefinitely for that. 

Dean whistles, grinning wide. It’s not smug or mocking. It’s that infuriating, charming smile. The one that shows how handsome he really is. Castiel looks towards the target Dean was firing at. Five arrows in a straight line, left to right, all on the same small target.

He’s still grinning. Castiel feels a tug inside of him. He wants to smile back. 

“That’s enough for today. We should finish up here,” Castiel responds tersely. Dean’s grin slowly fades, his eyes narrowing. Those hard lines on Dean’s face that Castiel’s so familiar with appear again. 

“Right. I’ll get the men to pack up.”

Castiel hears Michael’s voice tell him he’s strong. That this is what strength looks like. 

But he doesn’t feel strong. Only the same old broken. 

 

______________________________________

 

His cuts and bruises on his body are healed. He spent a few moments before bed last night healing the rest of them. But the gash on his head still has a little to go. Not too long, however. 

He didn’t have any nightmares last night – too many thoughts running around his head about everything that’s happened. About the future. About how everything has changed so drastically and how his own plans for the future have crumbled. No, not crumbled. Just pushed further ahead. 

The guards are still waiting outside his door when he enters the hall. They don’t bother trying to tell him to knock when he waltzes right into Dean’s chambers. Right into the chambers Dean’s currently only half-dressed in. 

Castiel blushes in embarrassment, fixing his eyes on the floor but not before he gets a glimpse of Dean’s smooth, sun-kissed skin and the ripple of back and arm muscles that his everyday clothes try to hide. 

“Gods, when will you learn to knock?” Dean says, pulling his undershirt over his head and buckling up his belt. He doesn’t seem in the slightest fazed by being seen half-naked in front of Castiel – only that he stormed in.

“How was I supposed to know you’d be up when every other morning you’ve still been in bed?” Castiel responds, finally allowing himself to look up.

Dean grunts, sitting down on the edge of his bed and tugging on his boots. “Just go wait outside for breakfast. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Castiel nods, turning to leave. Dean grunts again, louder this time.

Castiel sighs. “Yes, Your Highness,” he says, still not used to the phrase, before closing the door with a click.

 

______________________________________

 

Their morning training is cut short when Dimarus sends someone for him. It’s only then when he remembers that he’s supposed to be reporting to Dimarus at the end of each day about Castiel and yet, the last two days he has completely forgotten and his friend must have been too busy to call for him yesterday. 

He doesn’t look happy when Dean enters the room, doors safely closed behind him. Dimarus leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “So, do you have anything to tell me?”

“No,” Dean says, fiddling with the buttons on his jacket. Dimarus huffs. 

“Nothing? _Dean_.”

Dean sighs. “What do you want me to tell you? That he doesn’t know what knocking is? That he’s still a bastard who doesn’t respect me but seems fine respecting anyone else, which I personally believe is more to do with pissing me off than actually respecting those people or that--” 

“Okay, that’s enough.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. If he starts killing guards and threatening to cut my arm off then I’ll let you know.” Dimarus shakes his head and Dean slumps forward, exhaustion flooding through his veins. “Please don’t treat me like I’m a child. Not you.”

“You know I never have,” he responds and Dean lets out a breath of relief. 

“Thank you. And I promise I will let you know if anything seems wrong, okay?” Dean says, walking towards the door.

“I’m holding you to it.”

Dean smiles before pausing, his hand hovering over the handle. “The other day you said you had a meeting with my father. What was it about?”

Dimarus’ eyes flash with pity. “Go to your meeting, Your Highness. You’ll find out there.”

Dread fills Dean’s stomach but he quickly schools his features so as not to let his friend see. He nods before exiting the room. Dean stares at the red carpet, all thoughts of what could have possibly be discussed at that meeting – at what will be discussed at the one he should be heading to now. 

“Is everything alright, Dean?” Dean snaps his head up to find Castiel standing beside him, peering up under his eyelashes. 

_“Is everything alright, Dean?”_

_“I’m scared.”_

“What?”

“I asked if everything is alright?” Castiel’s eyes are narrowed, his eyebrows raised. Dean’s throat constricts. 

“Did I say you could call me that?” Dean asks, fists clenching at his sides. Castiel doesn’t respond for a moment but eventually he takes a step back, flicking his eyes away in something akin to annoyance. 

“No, Your Highness.”

“Then don’t,” Dean snaps, a little too emotional. He inwardly curses himself but Castiel has already caught him at it. “I have a meeting. Now.”

He doesn’t spare Castiel another glance before taking off down the hall, squeezing his eyes shut to get those words out of his head. But it’s no use. It’s all he can hear.

_“Is everything alright, Dean?”_

_“I’m scared.”_

_“It’s okay, my son. It’s all going to be alright.”_

 

______________________________________

 

Dean waits until the rest of the generals and guards have left the room, leaving only him, Castiel and his own four guards. He eyes the table in front of him, posture straight – not giving anything away. 

“Leave,” Dean says, and after a moment’s pause the men behind him start walking towards the door, Castiel following after them. Dean doesn’t know why he does it but he shakes his head, pointing towards Castiel. “No, you stay. Just…” Dean looks at the other four guards, now hesitant, “Leave the doors open and wait outside. I won’t be long.” They bow, before taking leave. 

Castiel stands where he is. Dean can feel his gaze on him but he doesn’t care. He leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face. 

The meeting held nothing bad. Nothing like Dean feared. But it’s still something. He’s been chosen to meet with the mayor of Lithos, the poor town already in debt to them. Luckily, it’s been arranged for them to meet somewhat in the middle – in Narla, a town a few days ride from Anathee. For that he is thankful but the fact that he – the crown prince – has been chosen to do this simple dealing is humiliating. 

His father must be angry about his choice involving Castiel. This is what Dimarus and his father had discussed. 

The chair beside him creaks as it’s pulled out. 

“You can’t sit there,” Dean says, but his words are empty. He’s too tired to get angry. That will come later. 

Castiel takes the seat, his hands folded carefully in his lap, his own posture straight – as it always is. “It’s strange don’t you think? That the crown prince would be sent all the way to Narla to deal with what most of the generals seem to think of as insignificant.”

Dean scoffs. Of course, he would do this. Shove it in his face. Make him feel worse. 

“It’s almost as if your father is punishing you.” Dean almost laughs. Is it that obvious? That even a stranger can see how pathetic Dean is? How unimportant he is to his own father? 

“You can leave.”

“Is it because of me?” Dean turns to look at Castiel, his eyes searching Dean’s face as if all the answers lie within his skin. He doesn’t know why he bothers. He clearly already knows all the answers. 

“I said you can leave.” Castiel holds his gaze for a moment longer before carefully pushing his chair back and standing. Dean feels that gaze on him once more before he leaves the room. He rests his head in his hands, clenching his fingers in his hair until it hurts.

He looks up to the ceiling, closing his eyes. He can’t let this fail. He doesn’t care if Castiel turns out to be the most insufferable man he’s ever met. He can’t let his father take this away from him.

He has to prove himself. Prove he’s not worthless. That it wasn’t his fault. He was only a child.

Dean feels tears prick at the back of his eyes. He holds them back – as always. He stands, planting his palms on the table to take another deep breath. And bottles it up.

As always.

 

______________________________________

 

It’s clear now that Dean’s relationship with his father is strained. He wonders when it started. In fact, he really wants to know when it started. Perhaps, if he gained Dean’s trust he could pry it out of him. And then, possibly he could pry more out of him. The king – whoever the man is – took everything from him. Took his family, took his home. 

Or did he? Maybe this _was_ all supposed to happen. Some sick fate. Maybe Leuric really isn’t the God of Light, for all Castiel has done in his life so far is suffer. Suffer at the hands of his own god.

Castiel has faith in the gods. It’s unrelenting, no question. But that doesn’t mean he has to like them – his Elo de Olapireta. Even if he still prays – still worships. Because sometimes it’s all he can do to keep hope alive. But at the end of the day when he’s even worse off than before, he wonders if they’re even there anymore. He wonders if any of it is true. 

But then he comes back to himself. It’s all been true so far. It’s all made sense. Except for this. Except for Dean. 

Dean’s the only thing he can’t make sense of. And he wants to make sense of it. Where does he stand? What does he really believe? Does he really believe the lies the king fed him – the lies the king fed everyone – about what happened all those years ago?

Dean grits his teeth as Castiel pins him to the ground, careful to lock his legs and arms so the prince can’t escape. Dean lets out a frustrated breath, knocking his head back against the ground. Castiel swiftly stands back up into his fighting stance, ready to go again.

He’s been whining and complaining all training and Castiel’s just about had enough of it. Castiel found out quicker than he wanted to what happened to him if he ever complained to Michael. It makes him want to laugh or cry. He doesn’t know which one. If only he had the luxury Dean has.

Dean pushes himself to his feet, not bothering to brush off the dirt. Castiel doesn’t give him more than a moment, lurching forward to fake a punch left before sending his right fist down towards Dean’s side. Dean grunts, taking a step back.

He looks angrier now. And Castiel can tell some part of it is because of earlier. Because of what happened at the meeting. But also, before that. When Castiel said his name and the way Dean reacted… It wouldn’t have been strange if it was the first time Castiel had said his name. But it wasn’t. 

Castiel already slipped up the first night with Dean. And the prince had, in fact, barely reacted, Castiel being the one to correct himself. 

Now he has Dean from behind, twisting his shoulder before pushing him to his knees in the dirt. Dean curses, bringing a hand up to his shoulder, agitation clear on his face when he stands and turns around. “I thought you said you wouldn’t hurt me this badly. Are you just enjoying yourself too much or are you really not as good of a fighter as you think you are?” he spits, for more than the first time this evening. 

Castiel lets his fists fall, jaw clenching. _Hurt_ , he thinks, incredulous. This is what hurting badly looks like? “If I wasn’t as good a fighter as I think I am, you would be hurting much worse now,” he grits out, breathing heavily.

“Then why are you even hurting me at all?” Dean yells, throwing his arm out wide. Castiel’s eyes go hard. Everything flashes in front of his eyes – the beatings, the cuts, the bruises, the whipping, the starving, the grieving and the pain, the pain, the pain.

He smiles – a maniacal, ugly thing. 

“Oh, you think that’s what pain feels like do you? A few bruises and a sore ego?” Castiel spits back, stepping forward and he can’t stop. All of his scars burn against his skin. “I’ll show you pain.” He takes Dean’s wrist before anyone can react, twisting it hard. 

Dean cries out in pain, falling to his knees. 

The rage seeps from his bones. He blinks at the sight in front of him. 

_“Please, Michael. We can do anything else. I’ll tie it behind my back. I’ll sit on it until it’s numb. I can’t use it then, please, Michael,” Castiel says, panic clawing at his throat as Michael stands above him, hazel wings branching out wide behind his back, eyes unflinching._

_“It won’t work, Castiel. This is the only way. And besides, now you can learn that this pain isn’t so bad.”_

_“No, Michael, please. What if something goes wrong?” Castiel begs, stepping backwards. Michael grabs his wrist._

_“I know what I’m doing, Castiel. You’ll thank me when later when you can swing two swords.” With that, Michael twists his right hand and Castiel cries out, his knees collapsing but Michael holds him up by his collar. “Bandage and splint it like you were taught. Tomorrow, we will start training with your left hand.”_  

_Castiel cries as Michael lets him go and he falls to his knees in the dirt._

Tears well up behind his eyes as he watches Dean’s face crumple in pain. He doesn’t resist when two guards shove him to the ground, his face in the dirt and a heavy knee in his back. It presses down heavily and Castiel gasps for air. His arms are twisted behind him and after a few moments of guards shouting, there’s rope being tied around his wrists.

Dean’s eyes meet his – they’re harsh and angry. Fuelled with hate. Castiel closes his own, pressing his face further into the dirt and in this moment, he doesn’t care about anything else – not the consequences. Not how this might ruin everything. 

Because all he can think is, _please, God, please, no. I can’t become like him._

“What do you want us to do with him, Your Highness?” 

“I don’t – just get him out of my sight!” Dean yells and suddenly Castiel’s being lifted up to his feet. He doesn’t look at Dean as he’s shoved forward, hands tight on his biceps as he’s lead away. 

He hears Dean cursing behind him as another guard tends to him. 

He doesn’t resist. He hangs his head and now does he pray. Pray that this stupid, broken part of him hasn’t ruined everything.

 

______________________________________

 

It’s a relief when he sees where they’re taking him. It means that he’s not going to be killed or sent to the dungeons to rot for the rest of his days. He’s only being punished. 

Castiel’s practically dragged up the steps of the wooden platform, drawing attention from any servants or guards in view. One guard behind him moves him to stand in the centre before placing a rough hand on his shoulder and shoving him to his knees. 

“We’re going to untie the rope,” the guard says. “Don’t try to fight.” He doesn’t respond as a sword is pointed at his throat. The guards behind him untie the rope before his jerkin is being ripped off – the buttons snapping in half – and pulled down and off his arms. 

They do the same with his doublet but he flinches away when one guard attempts to pull off his undershirt. Not even caring that there’s a sword pointed at him, Castiel cranes his neck to glare at the man. “Leave it.”

The guard opens his mouth to speak but another cuts him off. “Let him have it. It’s not going to do anything.”

His arms are then pulled to the side and two cuffs with their long chains attached to tall, wooden posts on either side of him are locked around his wrists. 

The guard standing in front of him sheathes his sword. “Your punishment will be delivered tomorrow,” he says with a cruel smile before kicking Castiel in the stomach. A rush of air punches out of him and he hunches forward. “I can assure you now that you’ll have quite a crowd.” So, it seems his punishment has already been decided. He will be whipped. In front of everyone. But out of all of that, he only wonders if Dean will be the one to do it. “There’s a lot of men who would like to see you bleed.” 

The other guards chuckle behind him. “Well, see you tomorrow.” They leave, heading off to where they had come from, pleased smiles splashed across their faces. 

Besides the fact that he’s tied up and ready to be whipped, he notices that he has a good view of the back of the castle. Quickly running the route through his head, he spots which balcony is the one that branches off Dean’s chambers and hence, the small windows of his own chambers.

He wonders where Dean is now. And how badly he’s hurt. The guilt gnaws at his chest. It doesn’t matter that he despises Dean or that he has never felt physical pain like Castiel has. He didn’t deserve that. 

The guilt lingers there but the shame is what has him finally slumping, his head dropping to his chest as darkness creeps over the castle. The cold creeps up his spine and sinks into his skin. But he’s used to this. 

All those nights after the invasion. All those homeless nights, where he slept in the cold shivering, his own fingers turning purple. All those months. All those years making do with what they had. Putting himself last. No, Michael putting him last. Because he was too selfish to do it himself. 

And then, all those days after when Michael would leave him alone out in the cold. A bubble of laughter spills from his lips. 

So, it wasn’t a waste. It does mean something. It means he can make it through the night. And the night after if he has to. 

Food doesn’t come – nor does water – but that was to be expected. Two guards at some point are positioned outside of the large wooden doors that lead into the castle, closed now for the night.

At some other point, Castiel’s knees start to ache from the hard wood underneath them. But he can’t move into another position – his arms shackled too tightly to allow any upper body movement or allow him to sit comfortably cross legged on the floor. 

Suddenly, he has the strange sense that he’s being watched. He looks up but the two guards outside of the door aren’t paying him any attention. He sweeps the small garden in front of him but no one’s there. He sweeps his gaze across the entire castle and there – a shadowy outline in the dark. Standing on Dean’s balcony. 

The shadow moves, disappearing back inside the castle. Back inside his chambers.

Castiel’s head falls forward. 

It’s going to be a long night.

 

______________________________________

 

Light slips through the crack in Dean’s curtains but he’s already awake. His bandaged wrist throbs where it lies on his chest. He fucked up. In more ways than one.

The first is now he’s let everyone know what a fool he is. And when he means everyone he means his father. He’s proven that while Castiel might not want to kill him he is capable of hurting him. He wonders of his father will just appoint him another guard and have Castiel thrown in the dungeons after his standard punishment for hurting Dean. 

No. He can’t let that happen. He can’t let his father take this away from him. He can’t. He won’t. He _will_ prove himself. He will become the best fighter in this castle and he will prove that he’s capable of making his own decisions. Dimarus will back him up. Even if none of the other guards will.

And the other way he fucked up…he wasn’t thinking when he said it. He was tired. He was angry. But that look in Castiel’s eyes. Dean was terrified. He might have only hurt Dean’s wrist but it looked as though he was going to murder him. That rage. That pain. 

He remembers the scars Castiel apparently has. And to see him pushed to the ground – not even trying to resist with what Dean thought was tears in his eyes. Seeing him chained up to the post was just as bad. Even if Castiel didn’t look scared. 

Not afraid of a beating. 

Because maybe the pain he suffered was far worse than any beating. 

Dean sighs, rising from bed. He struggles to dress, being extra careful with his wrist. He doesn’t look outside. He doesn’t want to see him now. He’ll see him soon enough anyway. 

Alissande is waiting at the table out in the hall. Breakfast hasn’t arrived yet but it’s nice to walk into his own hall without having his four guards standing there. The guards were finally able to stand outside now that Castiel isn’t here. 

Alissande looks up, sympathy in her eyes. Dean takes a seat beside her, laying his wrist gently on the table. She quickly gets to it, carefully undoing the bandage and testing the movement in his hand – Dean responding with grunts and curses. 

She’s pulling a new bandage out of her basket when he remembers. “You were there that day, weren’t you? In the baths with Castiel?” Dean asks, and Alissande’s eyes go wide before nodding.  “Did you see his scars?”

She holds his eyes for a moment and Dean wonders how bad it is. How many there are. She swallows, speaking quietly. “They were everywhere. Some small.” She pauses. “Some not so small.” Dean tries to conjure an image in his head but finds he can’t. “He didn’t like to be touched,” she whispers and Dean nods. 

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”

“And there was one--”

Dean leans forward when she closes her mouth. “One what?”

Alissande shakes her head. “They were just everywhere.” She finishes with bandaging his wrist and stands. He knows she’s not telling him something – perhaps to protect Castiel from having all of his secrets revealed. He can’t find the strength to pry it out of her. He’ll find out himself sooner or later. 

“Thank you, Alissande.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” She bows, grabbing her basket and heading to the door. 

“Alissande,” Dean calls before she can leave. She turns, eyes bright. “You’ll be needed here again tomorrow. Castiel will need your help.” Realisation dawns on her face, her lips pulling into a frown. She nods again and slips out the door. 

 

______________________________________

 

Catharlo is strolling through the stables when he hears loud voices and laughter. But not kind laughter. He listens carefully for the sound again, heading further into the stables until he hears one indeterminable voice. Nicolaus. 

His walk turns into a jog and finally he locates the guard he’s come to known for his coldness and aggression – tucked into the corner of the stable, two guards beside him and is that—

“What are you three doing?” he says, voice raised. He’s not good at this. At commanding. But he has to try. Nicolaus and the other two guards – now recognisable as Quintin and Pierre – turn suddenly at his voice.

Emery stands clutching a rake in the corner – looking unhurt but rather angry and frustrated – his eyes darting at each and every one of them. 

Nicolaus smiles. “We were just helping the new man out here with his duties,” he responds, reaching over to pat Emery on the shoulder who promptly shoves it away. It’s a poor excuse but Catharlo doesn’t have any authority over these men so he can’t exactly do much.

“Well, you are needed no more. And the whipping will be starting soon. I assumed that out of everyone, you would be the last one to miss that,” Catharlo says, and Nicolaus’s eyes darken immediately. 

“Of course. We’ll be on our way, then.” The three guards exit the stables but not without one last glance towards Emery. Catharlo doesn’t catch it but he’s sure it’s not friendly. Emery, however, has already looked away, back to raking the hay. 

Catharlo’s not sure what to do now that they’re alone. The young man rakes with effort, his own eyes catching on the way Emery’s uniform pulls taut over his wide shoulders and the way the skin of his sharp collarbone peeks out from under his collar. 

“Is there something you wanted or are you just going to stand there staring all day?” 

Catharlo blushes, opening his mouth to respond. “I didn’t – I wasn’t--”

“It’s alright. I understand,” Emery scoffs, and Catharlo’s lips pull into a thin line, eyes narrowing. “A brown man – a _half blood_ \--” he says, sarcasm dripping from his tone, ‘--in the royal castle is something to get used to.” Catharlo almost opens his mouth to respond in the negative – that was definitely not why he was staring – but realises it’s probably for the best.

“Yes, well…” Catharlo says, clearing his throat, and finally, _finally_ , Emery stops what he’s doing and turns his curious, brown eyes on him. His big, starry, brown eyes. Catharlo swallows, willing his eyes not to stray. 

Emery huffs, the frustration from before seeping away. “You’re Catharlo.”

He nods. “Did Dimarus tell you about me?” he asks, softly.

“He told me you were one of the good ones. That I could trust you.” Catharlo feels a swell of pride in his chest.

“He told me about you too. Said you were a good man. And an excellent fighter just like your father.” Catharlo shoots him a small smile but Emery just continues to stare at him, eyes narrowed as though trying to figure out if he really can be trusted. 

Emery finally nods, getting back to his raking. “I’m assuming he told you to look out for me as well.” Catharlo bites his lip, hesitating before finally nodding. “It’s nice of him to do that but I don’t need anyone looking out for me. It might come as a surprise but I’ve been dealing with this nearly — well, pretty much all my life. It’s Torrin. I’m a man in very few places and a _half blood_ in the rest. Not that you would understand,” he adds as an afterthought. 

Catharlo looks down at his feet, frowning. “If it makes you feel any better I was not told to follow you around and watch your every move. Merely instructed to interrupt if I saw anything out of place carrying on. Just like I would do with any other guard. And if you don’t want me too, I won’t report this to Dimarus.”

Emery shakes his head quickly. “Don’t. I know how this goes. It only gets worse. And besides they can’t do much harm anyway. Not without having a nice long look at my fists first.”

Catharlo breathes out a laugh. “Yes, I saw you in the ring with Castiel so trust me when I say I believe you.” The way Emery had moved – even though Castiel was no doubt better – was mesmerising and he could make out the clear strength hidden in his tall, slim body. 

Emery’s eyes meet his again and this time there’s the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips as he runs his hand through his neatly cropped, curly, black hair. Catharlo can’t tear his eyes away. “Well, I suppose I will see you around, then,” Emery says and Catharlo gives a small smile but his stomach sinks. He wishes he had an excuse just to stay a moment longer. _No_ , he chastises himself. _You’ve already humoured yourself enough for one day._

Catharlo nods once more before turning and heading back out into the stables. He hasn’t gotten very far when he hears footsteps behind him. 

“Wait!” Emery calls, and Catharlo spins on his heels. “You said there was a whipping?”

Catharlo’s eyebrows pinch. “You didn’t hear? Castiel is being whipped very soon.”

Emery shakes his head. “Castiel? What happened?”

“He hurt the crown prince at training.” Emery’s eyes widen ever so slightly and he frowns. 

“Will he go to the dungeons?”

Catharlo shrugs. “I’m not sure but we will find out at the whipping if you wanted to go along.” Catharlo is not one for watching other men be punished on the post but he wanted to be there to hear the outcome – everyone did – for it could end in someone else being appointed the crown prince’s new personal guard. And the king will also be in attendance and it’s always a good thing to show your face around the king.

Emery lets out a deep breath. “Let me just put this away.” He points to the rake before quickly dashing back into the stable and out again.

He walks beside him and Catharlo finally notices that he’s only a few inches shorter. The young man walks with purposeful strides, eyes darting around at everyone they pass, curiosity thinly veiled. His cheekbones are high and sharp, helping frame his eyes in a way that has Catharlo stumbling in his step.

Emery flicks his eyes over to him, lips pulled into a smirk and face clear with amusement. Catharlo flushes, inwardly cursing himself but soon Emery’s eyes are being pulled away as they come closer to the garden where a crowd of other guards stand.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second remembering his father’s last words before he left to pursue his life here at the royal castle. 

_You cannot let them know what you are._

It aches every time he thinks it – _what_ not who – but he must. Because his father is right. They can never know. He will be exiled or killed.

He opens his eyes again and they easily fall on Emery’s profile, highlighted softly in the sunlight.

They cannot know. But that doesn’t mean he cannot indulge. If only for a little while. 

 

______________________________________

 

“He’s coming to see you,” Dimarus says.

“Here?” The captain nods and Dean closes his eyes for a second before nodding himself. “You promise to back me up on this?” he asks, standing to face the double doors. 

“Of course,” Dimarus responds, without hesitation.

“Thank you.” Dean smiles – a genuine smile. 

They don’t have to wait much longer, his father sweeping in without so much as a knock. His guards stand behind him, eyes ahead. 

Dimarus and Dean bow before him. His father is scowling by the time he looks up.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks, eyes dark – always dark when he’s speaking to Dean.

Dean sucks in a breath. “I want to continue with Castiel as my personal gua--” 

“What is the matter with you?” Dean flinches back. “I gave you one responsibility and this is what happens,” his father spits. 

“I know what you must think but--”

“All you’re doing is putting yourself at risk. All for what?” 

Dean pauses to gather himself before speaking. “I pushed him to do this. It wasn’t his fault and once I punish him he won’t do it again.”

“So, you did this?” Dean clenches his fists behind his back. He doesn’t need to hear this. 

“If I may, my King,” Dimarus starts, stepping forward but his father cuts him off with a hand. 

“If this is what you truly want then go ahead. Put yourself in danger and see what happens. It’ll be no one’s fault but your own.” His father, stops, eyes filled with disgust. “Like always.” Dean holds his head high, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I will see you at the post.” And with that, he leaves, his guards following behind.

Dean’s head drops and he leans heavily back against the table as if it’s the only thing holding him up. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” Dimarus says.

Dean rubs a tired hand down his face. “No, you…you tried and that counts for everything.” He gives him a small smile – a tired smile. “I’ll be down soon. Just give me a moment.”

Dean doesn’t need to look up to see the pity in his friend’s eyes. Dimarus nods and swiftly leaves the room. 

He lets his eyes slip shut.

_“Is everything alright, Dean?” Dean looks up from under the sheets. His mother pads over to him softly, Sam asleep in the cot beside him. She isn’t yet dressed in her nightgown and his father is nowhere to be seen – their large bed remaining empty across the room. Dean has his own room but since they found out the angels had planned to attack Anathee to take it for their own and his father had sent his men all the way to Iowan to go to war, they’ve all moved into one big room where they can all be protected together from any assassins sent after them. Any angels._

_“I’m scared.” She gives him a sympathetic smile and kneels down beside the bed._

_“It’s okay, my son. It’s all going to be alright.” She strokes his hair, something that usually sends him off to sleep but tonight he can’t seem to drift away._

_“What about the men who are going to fight in the war?” Mary’s eyes flash with something he can’t grasp. He thinks it might be sorrow. As if their men are already dead._

_“It will all be over very soon,” she whispers but it doesn’t make Dean feel any better._

_“Can you read to me?” he asks, curling on his side._

_“Of course. What do you want me to read?”_

_“The book of poems. The one with the thick back.” Mary smiles._

_“Of course, my darling boy. I’ll be back in just a moment with it and then hopefully we can get you to sleep.” She rises from her knees, walking towards the door just as his father comes in._

_“Where are you going?” he asks, taking his mother’s hand in his own._

_“I’m just going to my chambers to get something for Dean. He’s scared.” His father huffs, not looking impressed._

_“Be quick, then. Ferrant?” his father points towards the man standing at the door – his mother’s personal guard. Ferrant is one of his father’s most trusted guards but Dean’s never liked him. Not with that smile and those eyes. They give Dean shivers. But then again, most guards in this castle get on Dean’s nerves. The only ones he likes are Heymon, his own personal guard and one of the younger ones, Dimarus. He’s always been kind._

_His mother turns to him and smiles. “I’ll be back in a moment,” she says, wandering out the door with Ferrant._

Dean opens his eyes to a knock on the door. 

“Your Highness? The whipping will begin soon,” a guard says, and Dean nods to himself, focusing on returning his breathing to normal.

With that, he straightens his posture and walks out into the hallway. 

There are no servants gathered in the garden, only guards, chattering away. 

He finally brings himself to look at Castiel. He looks tired but not broken. And still not scared. His eyes are on the wood in front of him, his muscles relaxed.

His father is already standing in the garden, waiting for him. He walks up and stands beside him but his father doesn’t even flick his eyes in his direction.

He has a front on view from where he stands, close enough so he’ll be able to see every emotion that passes across Castiel’s face when he’s whipped. He doesn’t know how to feel about that just yet.

The guards around him begin to quiet down as Dimarus steps up on the platform. Raising his voice, he speaks, “For the crimes of harming the Crown Prince, you Castiel Novak, will be punished with five lashes. You will be left overnight to think about these crimes before returning to your role in serving the Crown Prince as his personal guard.” 

The guards start to mutter to themselves upon hearing the last part. It takes all of Dean’s strength to not react to any of it nor glance in his father’s direction. 

“Do you accept this punishment?” Dimarus continues and Castiel mutters something in response which can only be interpreted as a yes for Dimarus nods. “Then let it be.” He steps down off the platform and signals for another guard to begin.

The guard uncoils a thin whip from his belt – the thin whip used when they want to punish, not to leave wounds gaping wide enough and deep enough for the person to bleed to death. Although, Dean still feels guilt spike in his gut when the first whip cracks. 

Castiel’s muscles tense for a moment after but he doesn’t scream or cry. His hands grip the chains hard but his muscles relax just in time for the second lash. His eyes are closed as he pulls the chain tight once more before it’s released along with the tension in his muscles. 

The whispering starts around him but all Dean can think about is the scars already marking Castiel’s body – the ones that his undershirt is hiding. He can only remember the look in Castiel’s eyes when he twisted Dean’s wrist.

How much pain has he felt for this not to scare him? For this to not even have him making a noise?

The final lash cracks down and Castiel’s eyes finally open and meets his own. No, not his own. He turns to look as his father stares back at Castiel, eyes cold. But Castiel’s eyes aren’t hard or threatening. They’re just…looking. 

Suddenly, his father turns, leaving without a word. At that, the rest of the guards seem to disperse and Dean’s left not knowing what he should do. 

He finds himself meeting Castiel’s eyes. And once more, his eyes aren’t threatening or cold. He simply looks at Dean as though he wasn’t just lashed five times across the back. 

A guard steps up beside him. “Your Highness, you have a class now. Orderic will be waiting for you in the library.”

Dean nods, tearing his eyes away from Castiel. “Yes, of course.” He pushes down the emotion that rises in his chest – the one he can’t quite make out. “He will be mad if I’m late.”

He turns his back and walks away, feeling the weight of Castiel’s eyes still on him as he goes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed! Chapters will be posted every Saturday ~8/9pm AEST time.
> 
> EDIT: Chapter 6 will be posted Sunday night (tomorrow) at the same time! Sorry for the delay!
> 
> ANOTHER EDIT: I'm really sorry y'all but I won't be able to get the chapter up tonight either. I do plan to have it ready to post tomorrow night (Monday) but if things do change I will keep updating here and on my blog. 
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://angvlicmish.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

_A scratching at the window wakes Castiel from his sleep._

_“You’re making too much noise,” a small girl’s voice comes through the crack in his bedroom window._

_“You’re the only one making too much noise,” another small girl’s voice responds._

_“Hold on, I’ve nearly got it.” And then suddenly his window is creaking all the way open and one small head peeps over the sill, followed by another. Matching big brown eyes stare back at him._

_“Hello,” the one on the right says._

_“Who are you?” Castiel asks, pulling his blankets up to his chin._

_“We live next door,” the one on the left says and from the look of her, she’s younger. Perhaps Castiel’s age. He doesn’t know what to say. The silence goes on for a few more seconds before the same girl speaks again. “Do you want to play?”_

_Castiel frowns, his eyes nearly filling with tears at the question. “I can’t.”_

_“That’s okay,” the older girl says. “We know you can’t go out very often. So, we thought we’d bring the fun to you.” And a moment later, she’s tumbling ungracefully into the room through the window, the other girl bumbling in after._

_“Ow, Elaria, watch it!”_

_“I didn’t mean it!”_

_Abruptly, his bedroom door swings open and in storms Castiel’s mother holding a big wooden spoon, eyes wide. “What’s going on – oh my, you girls gave me such a fright,” she says, deflating with clear relief. Castiel frowns. Does his mother know these girls?_

_“Sorry, Mrs Novak,” they both say in unision. The girls stand from the ground and Castiel takes another look at them. Their skin is dark, a stark contrast to Castiel’s sickly pale skin and both have kinky, black hair. Although the girl on the left – Elaria – has hers braided and falling past her shoulders while the older girl has hers cut shorter. Elaria’s short and solid whereas the older girl is taller and slim. But despite there differences it isn’t hard to tell they are sisters._

_“You’re forgiven,” his mother says, shaking her head fondly. “But next time, you will use the door.”_

_“Yes, Mrs Novak.”_

_“What are you doing in here anyway?”_

_“We thought that Castiel might want to play. We brought some things,” Elaria says, holding her hands out to reveal some freshly carved wooden horses. Castiel’s eyes widen. They’re beautiful._

_“Oh girls, that’s wonderful. Did you want to play Castiel?”_

_He flicks his eyes between the three of him, his chest tightening. He’s never had any friends before. Not outside of Michael. He nods hesitantly but his mother must see the apprehension clear on his face because she leaves the door open and tells him she’ll just be in the kitchen._

_The two girls slowly make their way to his bedside. Castiel tries to shuffle over to make room but it hurts too much. He feels guilty but they don’t seem to mind as they sit on the floor._

_“I’m Kyra,” the older girl says, shoving her hand in his face. “And this is my sister Elaria.” Elaria smiles before shoving her own hand in his face._

_It’s only then that Castiel sees the small wings peeping over each of their shoulders. Castiel’s heart swells. They’re black. Just like his own. Tears well up behind his eyes once more. One less broken thing about him then._

_Castiel smiles and takes both their hands at once. “Castiel.”_

 

______________________________________

 

He rests his head against his arm, his body shivering with the cold. His back aches and aches but his mind is too far away for it to bother him. He wants to laugh. Because Michael was right. 

How could he have possibly lasted out here if Michael hadn’t prepared him? If Michael hadn’t hurt him so much that now all pain feels the same. That now he can simply drift away. Well, at least for physical pain. 

The blood, thankfully, has dried on his back now. Before it was almost unbearable – the way the warm, thick liquid slid down his skin. It made him want to scream and thrash. But he restrained himself. He drifted away. 

He thought of his mother and father and the day he was made unbroken. He drifted away to Kyra and Elaria and how the tumbled through a window and into his heart forever. How easy it was to allow their touch. The image of bodies piled on top of him tried to flash in his mind but he stayed strong. He pushed them away. 

And when it was all too much he focused on the searing pain of his lashes. It was a relief.

Now his mind just drifts wherever. Now his mind drifts to Dean. Dean didn’t look angry or hurt when he met his eyes this morning. He couldn’t figure out exactly what was going on in Dean’s mind but it wasn’t rage. And hearing the Captain of the Guard confirm that he would resume his position as Dean’s personal guard was another indicator that he isn’t angry with him. Or at least, not angry enough to get rid of him.

The shame still festers in his gut, not letting him go. With the hour or so of sleep he had last night, he dreamt of Michael. He’s never feared himself. He’s never had a reason to. But now--

The sound of the castle doors opening has Castiel’s head jerking up. It seems too early for the guards to be rotating. He strains his ears but it’s no use at this distance. Another guard is talking to the two on duty and they appear to be arguing.

After they’re done, he watches carefully as all three guards slowly approach him. “The Crown Prince has ordered you be sent to his chambers,” one of them says, and Castiel’s eyes narrow. But it hasn’t even reached midnight yet. What did he do to get his punishment cut short?

His thoughts are pushed to the side when the guards unchain him and harshly pull him up by the arms. Castiel grits his teeth, focusing on putting one foot in front of each other. He attracts bewildered looks by the few servants and guards roaming or standing in the halls. 

He’s not sure if he should feel relief or fear when the doors to Dean’s chambers – to their chambers – come into sight. But four guards stand outside his door with strange but not happy looks on their faces and if anything, that’s what reassures him. 

The doors are opened after a knock and Castiel is being pushed in and shoved to his knees – his hands reaching out quickly to stop him from falling on his face. Pain shoots up his back and he grunts, biting his bottom lip.

Lifting his head, his eyes land on boots and he recalls his first meeting with Dean. It feels so long ago now but in reality, it’s only been a quarter of a cycle. 

“You can leave,” Dean says, tone casual towards the guards.

“But Your Highness, we cannot--”

“I gave you an order,” he demands and there is silence for a few seconds before Castiel hears the scuffling of boots on the floor and doors shutting behind him.

Dean sighs above him and Castiel barely has time to even lift his head before Dean is bending down to grab his arm. “Come on. Let’s get you to your chambers,” he says, voice tired.

Castiel almost pushes him out of instinct – Michael never helped him up. He had to do it himself. But he stops, letting Dean pull him to his feet. He grimaces as he braces one hand on the table and the other clutches at Dean’s sleeve. 

Castiel tries to let go but Dean takes his arm and swings it over his shoulders. Castiel’s hands clench into fists and his breathing picks up at the pain. “Shit,” Dean mutters, carefully winding his other arm around his lower back and careful not to touch Castiel’s wounds, his gentle, bandaged hand lands on a scar on Castiel’s hip where his shirt is pulled up. 

He flinches away in panic, attempting to pull his arm away from where it rests on the prince’s shoulder but Dean quickly secures it there with a hand on his wrist. The hand burns his skin and Castiel swallows, closing his eyes to focus on his breath that is rapidly increasing. 

“Cas,” Dean breathes, small and soft. “Look at me.” Castiel blinks, meeting Dean’s eyes – only a few inches away. “It’s alright. Let’s just get you to your chambers.” Dean’s eyes are piercing – knowing. His hand tightens on Castiel’s wrist. It blisters.

Castiel rips it out of Dean’s grasp, breathing heavily as the pain shoots up his back and he stumbles forward a step until he can plant both hands on the table. “Castiel, what’re you--”

He pushes away, stumbling towards his door with one hand clutching his side. He reaches for the handle, trying it a few times before he shoves it open with his shoulder. It swings open and Castiel falls forward with the momentum, crashing into the hard, wooden floor. 

The ache in his knees turns into a searing flash of hot agony and Castiel presses his forehead into the wood, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. 

“Fuck, Castiel, just let me help you,” Dean says, his boots loud on the floor behind him. He grabs for Castiel’s bicep but Castiel pulls away once more.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he says, voice hoarse. “Please, just leave.” Dean doesn’t respond for a few moments and Castiel wonders if he’s already gone.

But then, “Alissande will be here soon to clean your wounds and I will not accept you refusing her.” 

Castiel nods, unable to respond with words. He hears Dean let out a defeated breath before leaving and softly closing the door.

He slowly lifts himself from the floor and makes his way over to his bathing tub. Alissande doesn’t take long at all and her presence while not comforting is a relief. At least now his wounds can be cleaned and at a slow rate – slower so no one will notice – he can start healing them. 

Alissande cuts his shirt away – it falling to the ground in bloody strips. He tenses at having her behind him – somewhere he cannot see – and if she notices, she doesn’t say anything. He thanks Leuric that it’s night. She’s seen him bare before in the baths but unless necessary he doesn’t want to feel that way again – vulnerable. 

Her hands are small and soft as they clean his back. 

Small and soft. 

She never says anything as she bandages him back up and Castiel certainly doesn’t look her in the eyes – not until she stands. “These are your new clothes,” she says, grabbing some clothes and boots out of her basket and placing them on the end of his bed. “They have been fitted for your size and should there be any problems, tell Dean and we will prepare some more.” 

He nods, unable to speak a word of thanks but she seems to understand, nodding back before quietly leaving the room. He concentrates hard on his back, closing his eyes and imagining his wounds. He heals them ever so slightly, feeling some of the skin and flesh knitting back together. There’s the slightest easing of pain and he’s grateful for it. He wishes he could heal them all at once but he can’t risk someone seeing them.

He shoves off his boots but doesn’t bother with his trousers, making his way to his bed where he lies on his front, head facing the door and wishes this all would go away.

That Dean would go away. And with him his gentle, calloused hands. 

His deceiving hands.

When he finally lets his eyes slipped closed with exhaustion, Dean’s hands turn into Michael’s. Harsh and angry. 

Never gentle. 

 

______________________________________

 

A strange feeling claws its way into Dean’s chest when Alissande finally enters Castiel’s chambers. He pushes it down to focus on before. On Castiel’s reaction to Dean touching him – just the slightest brush of skin against skin. It all leads back to those scars. To the pain he must have suffered somewhere along the way. 

He was trying to be gentle for the sake of his wounds. But like he thought before, intimate touch is what seems to be worse for Castiel. 

But he didn’t refuse Alissande and her touches will certainly be gentle. That feeling surfaces again. He wanted to help Castiel. To extend a hand for him to show that they can put all of this aside. That they got off on the wrong foot. And Castiel took it. He did. Until…

He’ll have another chance. In fact, maybe showing Castiel that he can trust Dean or that Dean trusts him is what will get him to come around. An idea forms in his head. One that Dimarus won’t like. One that his father will hate. But Dean doesn’t care anymore. It’s his choice and his life. 

He stands, heading out to the hall just as Alissande exits Castiel’s chambers. Her head is down, lips pursed.

“How is he?” Dean asks and he finds that it’s out of genuine concern.

“He will be okay. His wounds will heal but he will struggle the next few days,” she responds and Dean nods.

“Thank you. I will call on you if he needs any further help.” 

“Yes, Your Highness.” She bows before leaving the room. Dean stares at the doors of Castiel’s chambers. He looks down at his bandaged hand. 

An extended hand of trust. And if Castiel can trust him then maybe along the way Dean will find out about those scars. About that pain. 

He takes a deep breath and straightens his posture before walking out into the hall.

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel’s stiff and aching throughout his entire body when he wakes. His sleep was fitful – plagued with memories of his brother. He sighs into his pillow, closing his eyes again. If only he could sleep dreamlessly. 

The light shines in through the windows, splashing across his eyelids and invading the darkness. Castiel jolts up, breathing heavily in pain as he does. It’s light. He quickly stumbles out of his bed and squints out the window. The sun is well above the horizon. 

He panics, ruffling through the new clothes that Alissande left on the end of his bed. He has three pairs of everything, even three pairs of boots. As fast as he can without causing any unnecessary pain, he pulls on his new outfit. 

Charging out the door, he raises his hand to knock on Dean’s chambers when he stops. Turning, he stares at the empty hall. 

He blinks. The four guards that usually stand outside his door are gone. 

Now, he doesn’t bother with knocking, opening Dean’s chambers and stepping inside. It’s flooded with light, the curtains pulled back fully, and the bed is neatly made. Dean, fully dressed and ready for the day, leans back in his chair, boots up and crossed on his desk as he writes something down on a piece of parchment. 

“You’re up,” Dean says, without glancing towards him. 

“Where are the guards?”

“I told them they weren’t required anymore.” Castiel’s eyebrows pull together. 

“You don’t require them anymore,” Castiel repeats slowly.

“That’s correct. And since I don’t, you will be needing these.” Dean places his quill back in its ink pot and swings his feet down from his desk. Bending over to grab something he pulls out two swords sheathed in a belt – Castiel’s belt. He walks over to stand in front of Castiel and extends them towards him. “I believe these are yours.” 

Castiel stares at him, unblinking. “You trust me with these? Even after I--”

“If you wanted to kill me, I would already be dead. And this,” Dean holds up his bandaged hand, “you’ve already been punished for. We’ll stop by the armoury later for you to collect anything else you may need.” 

He’s not sure if the prince has lost his mind or not. Perhaps not, for if Castiel did intend to kill him then he is right. It would’ve already been done. Dean gestures for Castiel to take the swords again.

Castiel does and the weight of them in his hands is reassuring. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he says, and this time it’s sincere. Because Leuric truly must be watching over him.

Dean shakes his head. “With other people around, you will call my Your Highness but in private you may call me Dean.” 

The sun highlights the different shades of green in Dean’s eyes. Something changed since he was whipped. Does Dean feel guilt over it? Is this his way of saying sorry? He wouldn’t think it possible. Castiel was the one who acted first, who hurt Dean first. He is the one who should be saying sorry. If he was good at using his words, that is. 

But he remembers last night and the way Dean held him when he was panicking. The way he tried to calm him. 

Dean’s face is bright and hopeful. Perhaps he is not as bad as Castiel previously thought. And if this is some unspoken truce between them – not only could it make all of this slightly easier but it could perhaps be his way of saying he’s sorry. 

“Of course.” He pauses. “Dean.” There’s the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of Dean’s lips. 

“Well,” he starts, letting out a breath of relief. “I’ll get the maids to deliver breakfast for you. I’m sure you’re hungry.” Dean pushes past him and into the hall. Castiel stands where he is, clutching his swords. 

He brushes a hand over the sheathes, clearing off any dirt before securing the belt around his waist. He rests his hands on the sword handles for a moment, closing his eyes. 

It may not be the situation he had in mind when he envisioned attempting to steal those jewels but he can’t change it now. If this is what has happened, then this is the path Leuric is guiding him to take. It is fate. 

He enters into their dining hall where Dean is speaking to some guards just outside. He catches Castiel’s eye for a second before looking away.

Fate.

 

______________________________________

 

“You will not skip training just because I cannot participate,” Castiel says, as they stand outside the stables.

Dean scoffs. “One day won’t hurt me.” Castiel’s hands are firmly placed on the handles of his swords. Ever since he had them returned, he has barely let go of them – as if they make him feel at ease.

“We’ve already seen how lazy you’ve become with your technique even _with_ training every day,” Castiel retorts and Dean scowls.

“Alright, alright. What do you want me to do anyway? I can’t use my right hand.”

Castiel smiles, small and mischievous. “You will train with your left.” 

Dean raises his eyebrows but finds he can’t disagree. If he wants to become the best fighter in the castle, he will have to learn to train with his left hand. “Okay, then. Let’s saddle up, shall we?” Dean says, beginning to walk into the stables. 

“No, you will run.”

“ _Run_?” 

“Yes, you will run and I’ll get to see how good your endurance is.”

Dean chuckles. “Trust me, my endurance is pretty damn good,” he says, grinning. Castiel squints. 

Dean’s grin fades. “You’re no fun,” he grumbles. Dean orders one of the few guards in the stables to saddle up Castiel’s horse and once it’s done he uses a stool to help himself up.

“Well?” Castiel raises an eyebrow as they come to standstill just outside the inner gates. Dean tries not to notice the stares of all the other guards around him but it’s hard not to with their intense gazes searing holes into Castiel’s back. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, breaking into a run, his sword swinging back and forth against his side. Somehow along the way, he finds himself smiling. Not a big smile. Just a small one. Because he likes this. 

Castiel clearly understood his intention – to start over – and already there has been a shift between them. They’re not friends or anywhere near that. It’s just the sense that Castiel doesn’t despise him like he did just a day or so ago. And hopefully on Castiel’s end, he gets the sense that Dean doesn’t despise him like he did just a day or so ago either. 

He likes that. He may get along with most of the guards and servants in this castle but other than Sam and Dimarus he doesn’t exactly have a lot of people he can really talk to – and even them he rarely sees. Heymon, of course, his old guard, was someone to talk to but it wasn’t the same with the old man. 

Looking behind him, Castiel is a way back, only having his horse walking and occasionally trot, most likely because of the wounds on his back.

He pushes forward, his legs striding out. It’s a beautiful day – a few puffy, white clouds in the sky – even if it is too cold for his liking. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling a small pressure release from his shoulders. 

Finally reaching their training area, Dean stops and crumples to the ground, lying on his back. He lets his eyes slip closed as he waits and a minute later and he hears the distinct sound of a horse coming to stop beside him.

“How are you supposed to fight in a battle when you can barely last it?” Castiel says dryly and when Dean opens one eye he finds that Castiel’s expression matches his voice. 

“You’re not a very supportive teacher, you know that?”

“So, you clearly lied when you claimed your endurance was ‘pretty good’.”

Dean leans up on his elbows, an amused smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “I was joking, Cas,” he says, and watches as Castiel stares at him confused.

“I don’t under--”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean says, getting to his feet. “Here. You need a hand getting down from there?” 

Castiel glances at the ground on either side of the horse. “Oh, yes. That may be…helpful.” 

“Use my shoulder,” Dean says and waits as Castiel swings his leg over the side of the horse and with one foot still in its stirrup, braces a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean grabs his bicep with his own hand and Castiel swiftly hops down with only a small grimace. 

He instantly steps away from Dean, taking his hand from his shoulder as Dean politely let’s go of him. “Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I’ll tie up the horse and you get into your stance with your left.” Dean nods, watching Castiel avert his eyes. 

Castiel focuses on his technique and building up strength in his left hand and wrist. There’s no physicality or fighting with Castiel’s limited movement but he has Dean running through the motions of a few different moves. It’s awkward at first but Dean finds himself getting used to it. 

They’re finished with training and Dean’s sheathing his sword when Castiel steps into his personal space. “Let me see your hand,” he says, and Dean lifts his left. “No, the other one.” Dean narrows his eyes but raises his bandaged hand for Castiel to look at. “Does it still hurt?”

Dean watches Castiel intently, the way his eyes dart over his hand as if looking for something. “Yeah but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Castiel flicks his eyes up before he raises his own hands, one lightly touching his wrist with just the tip of his fingers as the other wraps around his hand, careful only to touch the bandage.

“Dean,” Castiel says, voice low. Dean’s eyes dart up just as Castiel presses at his wrist roughly with his fingers. Dean shouts, pulling his hand away.

“What the fuck are you--”

“Does it feel better?”

“Feel better? No, it feels--" Dean looks down at his hand, spreading his fingers. It still hurts, that’s for sure but not as much as before and testing it out, he finds he has more movement. “What did you do?”

Castiel shrugs. “I just put some things back into place.”

Dean’s mouth hangs open. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“My brother taught me. We should probably get going now,” Castiel says, looking up at the clouds that have now turned grey. 

Dean nods, swallowing. “Right. Yeah, okay.”

Brother. He’d almost forgotten. Castiel didn’t have any disdain in his voice when he mentioned him but could that be who? His brother is the one that trained him. And what did Castiel say all the way back in that cell?

Proud and furious when Castiel became better than him?

Dean stashes it away into the corner of his mind as Castiel calls over at him, asking for a hand back up onto his horse. 

 

______________________________________

 

It’s been three days since Castiel was whipped and as his lash wounds have slowly started to heal, so has Dean’s wrist. Once a day at their morning training, Castiel will find some excuse to touch his wrist – whether it’s correcting technique or in a fight – healing only enough that it’s barely noticeable. 

Castiel’s own wounds, while healing and finally allowing more movement, still pain him and Dean has had to cut their training’s short. 

Like now. It’s early in the morning and they’re walking back to the castle from their training spot, Castiel opting to start walking instead of riding to keep the stiffness away. It’s more comfortable between them now. Dean having even taken it upon himself to start calling him ‘Cas’. He likes it. Michael stopped calling him that after the invasion. 

When he finally lifts his head from the grass to look at the snow that has started falling, he notices the display in front of him. A multitude of servants and guards are setting up stalls and tents just inside the outer wall. 

“What is this for?” Castiel asks. Dean sighs beside him.

“It’s the festival for the war.” Castiel’s heart sinks, only now remembering all the meetings about it. How could he have forgotten? Dean waves his hand in the air. “The anniversary of when we won the war.”

What war, Castiel wants to ask. Wants to scream. There was only an invasion. A butchering. He swallows, nodding. 

“Right.” It’s only then that he sees the look on Dean’s face. It’s not one of pride or excitement. He looks sad. “Do you not enjoy the festival?” he prods gently. 

Dean’s eyes snap over to him. “What? No, it’s fine. I enjoy it.” Castiel doesn’t respond and Dean blows out a breath, relenting. “It only reminds me of my mother. You know, when she was taken.”

Castiel nods and he wishes he could do more. Say more. The misery etched into Dean’s features is clear. But he can’t. “Anyway,” Dean goes on, “Other than that, the festival is fun. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

 

______________________________________

 

Much to Dean’s amusement, Castiel does not seem to enjoy it. He stands stiffly beside him, eyes narrowed and lips constantly pursed. 

It’s early in the evening, just getting dark now but the torches and bonfires light up the attractions. Bright colours spring from the royal banners and tents, a contrast to the bleak winter surroundings. They’ve already walked through the entire first row of stalls, peeking around at different things. There’s an abundance of food and drink, games with bows and arrows and throwing daggers. Even a large tent with a mystery attraction inside that has a line going out the front and a raised wooden platform for the musicians. 

Nobles trample the grass, running and walking past with cheery faces. Even more line up at the outer wall, waiting for their invitations to be approved before they can enter. His father won’t be coming down until later but Sam is already out with Mervyn and they’re currently walking over to Leda where she sits on a log by herself – clearly waiting.

“Oh, look who it is,” she says, standing as Dean approaches. 

“It’s lovely to see you again, my lady.” Leda curtsies before batting at the air in front of her.

“Oh, ever the romantic, Prince Dean.” Dean rolls his eyes. Leda smiles, her eyes falling on Castiel. “It _is_ actually nice to see you again, Castiel.” And if the dark isn’t deceiving him, he would think a blush appears on her cheeks.

Jealousy curls in Dean’s chest. Castiel only squints. “Of course. It is lovely to see you again as well.” He bows at the waist slightly, hands still clasped behind his back.

“Dance?” Leda asks, and Dean frowns. Is she really asking Castiel to dance? Over him?

“I don’t dance,” Castiel responds, eyes narrowed. 

“You’ve never danced?” 

“No.”

“Well,” Leda starts, and Dean can’t help but huff. She eyes him for a second, a smile on her lips. “I’m a wonderful teacher. I’m sure I can help you out.”

Castiel steps back, raising a hand. “No, I really can’t--” 

“We can just stay here. We don’t have to go where everyone else is,” Leda reassures. “I’ll just teach you a few steps.” Castiel glances at Dean, his eyes hesitant but finally nods.

“Okay,” he says, sounding unsure. Dean sighs, taking a seat on the log. 

“So, first,” Leda says, taking Castiel’s hand and pulling it towards her, “This hand goes here.” She places his hand on her waist, Castiel visibly attempting to stay as far away as possible. Leda laughs gently. “You don’t have to be shy. I’m a grown woman, you know.” She lightly tugs Castiel’s hand until it’s in the correct place on her lower back. The change pulls them closer together and Dean frowns, that jealousy surfacing again.

He knows he has no right to feel jealous over Leda. Leda isn’t his nor are they together and even he’s seen her dance with other men before without feeling this way. But this is Castiel. And while they’ve been slowly becoming friendlier with each other, he still doesn’t trust him enough to want him near her. 

But from the look of it he doesn’t need to worry. Leda’s hand is on his shoulder now and their hands are clasped together. Castiel’s frowning in concentration but Dean can see the apprehension still in his eyes as Leda teaches him some steps. 

He guesses he shouldn’t have had to worry in the first place – knowing Castiel’s aversion to touch. But the feeling still sits.

Castiel, for all of his grace, struggles with the basic steps – mostly because he’s constantly trying to keep distance between them, although Leda doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel says, face scrunching up in distress after stepping on Leda’s toes. She smiles at his worry.

“It’s okay, Castiel. You should’ve seen Dean the first time I danced with him.”

“Okay,” Dean interrupts, finally standing. “That’s enough.” Castiel swiftly steps away from Leda, relief clear on his face. Leda glares at Dean who raises his hand. “Dance?”

The music is loud and upbeat, and Dean and Leda move flawlessly around the small clearing. “You two seem to be more relaxed around each other,” she notes. “Did I miss something? Other than the bandaged wrist which you still haven’t told me about.” 

Dean holds her close, glancing around to make sure no one is close enough to hear above the music. “I angered him and he injured my hand,” he says. 

Leda stumbles in her steps before regaining herself. “He what?”

Dean searches for Castiel through the crowd – still standing patiently next to that log. “He injured my hand and he was whipped for it.”

“Whipped for it!” Leda hisses. Dean hushes her quickly before pulling her tighter against him.

“Yes, Leda, I know. He didn’t deserve it but it happened anyway. And it doesn’t matter because I extended a hand of trust and he accepted, so there you go.” Leda huffs, shaking her head.

“Gods, Dean.”

“I know.”

“So, it’s your fault then that he’s stiff and awkward dancing.” Dean pauses for a second before he laughs, truly laughs. Leda’s eyebrows pull together. “What?”

“No, it’s definitely not that, trust me.” Leda frowns.

“So, is it me?”

“No, no, Leda. Don’t be ridiculous. He just--” Dean pauses, thinking of a way to phrase it without giving away more than he should, “--he’s just not very good with other people.”

“Oh,” Leda says before smiling. “Well, that’s even more endearing.” Dean makes a pained noise at the back of his throat. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to bother him if he’s not interested. But it doesn’t hurt to look at him.” Dean’s eyes search for Castiel’s again and finds him bent over and talking to a few younger children. He spots a floppy mop of hair among them. 

“Looks like your siblings have found him.”

Leda smiles, grabbing Dean’s hand and pulling him along. 

“Dean! Leda!” Sam exclaims. Mervyn stands a small distance away, watching carefully over his brother. Dean nods at him with a smile.

“Sammy,” Dean says. “Enjoying the festival so far?”

“Yes, but we were going to get Castiel to play one of those stall games because they have the best prizes!” Sam says, throwing him arms out wide.

“Why do you need Castiel to get it for you? Just go up and ask for the prize and they’ll give it to you.”

Sam pouts. “But that’s no fun.”

“Yeah, Dean. That’s no fun,” Leda says, putting her hands on her hips. 

“Okay, fine. But you’ll have to ask Castiel first.” Sam grins, turning to tug at Castiel’s sleeve who appears to be engaged in a very serious conversation with Leda’s youngest sibling.

“Castiel!” Sam says, interrupting their conversation. 

“Yes, Prince Sam?”

“Will you win that game for us? The one we told you about?”

Castiel casts a glance in Dean’s direction and Dean nods. “Of course, Sam. I will try my best.”

“Great! Let’s go!” 

Sam takes off along with Leda’s siblings, Mervyn trailing not far behind them. Castiel waits for Leda to take Dean’s arm and start walking before following a few steps after. 

There’s a nobleman already playing the game when they arrive at the stall. He shoots the first arrow into the centre of the small target and the man behind the stall hands him another. His second arrow dips below the centre of the target. The nobleman huffs in annoyance, placing the bow back down before wandering off. Sam grabs Castiel by the arm and pulls him to the front. 

“How do we win the prize?” Sam asks, visibly excited.

“Well, Your Highness. You have to hit the middle three times in a row. But for you, Prince Sam, the prize is for free,” the man says but Sam shakes his head.

“No, that’s quite alright. My friend here would like to try.” Dean’s not the only one caught off by the word friend – Castiel jerking his head towards his younger brother, mouth slightly parted, searching for words. 

“Of course, Your Highness,” the man responds, holding the bow out for Castiel and handing over the first arrow. Castiel plays with the bow for a moment, eyebrows pinched.

“This is an incredibly weak string,” he says, and Dean can’t help but smile. 

“I think that’s the point, Cas.” Castiel huffs, unimpressed but finally raises the bow.

Just like the noblemen, the first arrow hits the middle of the target. Sam and one of Leda’s younger sisters cheer where they stand on their tip toes to peer over the stall.

The man hands Castiel the second arrow. He frowns, staring at the arrow for a moment before raising his bow. He holds it, aiming slightly higher. The arrow hits the middle. Sam claps, smiling so wide his gums are showing.

The man with a slight crease in his forehead now, hands Castiel the third arrow. Castiel stares at it again, turning it over in his hand before raising the bow, and this time aiming slightly higher than the second. 

It hits the middle. 

Sam and Leda’s siblings cheer, throwing their hands in the air. The man behind the counter grumbles but holds out the prize. It’s a small wooden horse, carved out of mahogany. Castiel stares at it, frozen and Dean nearly steps in to ask what’s wrong when the man basically shoves it at Castiel’s chest, forcing him to take it. Castiel visibly swallows before turning and kneeling down in front of Leda’s youngest sister.

Leda sighs beside him but this time Dean doesn’t roll his eyes or turn to glare at her. He simply watches Castiel and the way his lips pull into a small smile for the little girl – a smile that looks as though it’s been tainted with sadness. His face is soft and his hands are gentle as they place the wooden horse into her hands as if it’s something precious. 

Sam – as well as Leda’s brother and other sister – smiles broadly, thanking Castiel. 

“Dean?” 

“Hmm?” Dean tears his eyes away from Castiel. Leda gives him a strange look.

“The music,” she says, and Dean finally comes to his senses. 

“Shit. Sam, we have to go.” Sam’s eyes widen when he hears. 

“Oh, where’s Mervyn? Mervyn!” Sam calls, running over to his guard. 

Dean taps Castiel’s arm where he now stands in front of Leda’s siblings. “We have to go. My father will be speaking in a moment.” Castiel nods, following Dean as he makes his way through the crowd.  The musicians play a different tune as the king makes his way towards the small wooden platform, his procession of guards, holding banners up high, close behind him. 

Dean finds his space next to Dimarus on the platform, who gives him a curt nod, ushering Castiel to stand behind him. Gazing to the side, he sees Sam find his place next to another general, Mervyn taking his usual place behind him. 

They wait as his father makes the slow trail down to the platform. Dean fidgets with the back of his jacket before craning his neck over to Castiel. “What were you doing with those arrows? You know, before at the game.”

Castiel’s lips purse. “I was testing their weight. Each of them weighed differently.”

Dean hums, watching his father get closer. “That’s smart.”

“Well, not really. It was incredibly apparent--”

“Yes, alright. I got it,” Dean says, his laugh a silent exhalation.

The crowd of nobles stand at attention and once his father reaches the stage, all chattering dies with the music. 

His father, hands behind his back and chin lifted surveys the crowd swiftly before finally speaking. 

“Welcome,” he starts, his voice deep and imposing. “To all of our friends, to all of our family. Tonight, we celebrate the tenth anniversary of our greatest victory. The victory over those animals, the angels.”

The crowd cheers and Dean finds his gaze falling upon the crowd, taking in the different people. He spots a few familiar faces. Nobles he’s met before, women he’s danced with at balls.

“We set an example for anyone else who threatens our power. Who threatens our people. Throughout all of the lands it will be known that we cannot be defeated.”

The crowd cheers and a few drunken men and guards even stamp their feet against the ground.

“However,” his father raises his hand, commanding silence. “Tonight, we do not just celebrate our victory. We remember those who lost their lives for our kingdom. We pray that the gods safely guided their souls to paradise. But we do not mourn them. We celebrate them for the heroes that they are. So, I ask that you raise your glasses, that you raise your heads. To victory!”

“To victory!” the crowd roars in response and with that the musicians begin to play. His father turns and greets some of the generals on stage. He doesn’t even glance at Dean and with that, Dean gestures to Castiel and steps down from the platform. 

Leda’s easy enough to find and they wait for Sam to join them before deciding it’s time to indulge in some food. Dean and Castiel are heading over to one food stall that has Dean’s mouth nearly watering just from the smell when there’s a small tap on his shoulder. 

“I received your invitation.”

Bright red hair and a devious smile greets him when he spins around. “Charlie!” Dean steps forward to attempt to envelop her in a hug but she swiftly steps away, lifting her dress to bow. “Oh, right.” Dean rubs his neck, embarrassed at having forgotten himself for a second.

“Your Highness, you’re looking well,” she says.

“Why, thank you, m’lady. You, in turn, look utterly ridiculous.” She wears a lovely, flowing dress that’s a dark red with golden trims, different to her usual pants and doublets with long white sleeves.

Charlie supresses a smile to shoot him a mock disapproving look. “I’m not sure how the other ladies do it every day. I’ve nearly tripped with every step I’ve taken.” She leans in close. “They’re the real heroes if you’re asking me.” Dean chuckles before noticing how her eyes drift to Castiel, regarding him with interest but it’s not the same as Leda’s interest.

“Oh, of course. Charlie, this is Castiel, my new personal guard. Castiel, this is Charlie Bradbury. An old friend.” Charlie nods and Castiel does the same, his face bright. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Castiel. And to finally put a face to the name.” Dean sighs. The bloody guards can’t keep their mouths closed about anything. He knows of the gossip and rumours that flood the castle but to hear they’ve already reached the outer ring of the capital where Charlie lives – well, it’s not what he would prefer if he had any control over it. 

“Well, Dean has told me nothing of you.” Charlie puts a hand to her heart. 

“I’m hurt, Your Highness. I thought you only ever talked of me.” Dean shakes his head with a fond smile.

“Charlie and I met when we were young. Her parents were good friends of my mother.  They passed a little while ago but she’s continued to run her father’s pub in the outer skirts of the city. It’s one of the best.”

“One of?” Charlie swats her hand in the air. “You mean _the_ best.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to visit one day,” Castiel says, and Charlie smiles. 

“Yes. Dean will have to bring you over. Now, may I steal the man in question for a moment?” Castiel nods, taking his position up a short distance away where he can still watch them but can’t hear. Charlie curls her hand around his bicep. “What is he like?”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What have you heard?”

Charlie scoffs. “He’s a deadly assassin. A cutthroat thief.  He carves the names of his victims on his skin.” Dean sighs, rubbing a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. 

“So,” Charlie says, a smile pulling at her lips. “What is he like? Really like?”

Dean pauses. What is Castiel like? He’s not sure he really knows. He’s angry but he can also be soft and kind. He’s loud when he wants to be but for the most part he’s quiet. He doesn’t fear a beating but he does fear intimate touch. “He’s…strange.” 

“That’s it?”

“I don’t know, Charlie. I haven’t known him for that long. And he keeps everything so tightly under his skin that I can’t seem to get much out of him.” Dean hesitates for a second. “He’s been through a lot. He’s suffered a lot. That’s all I know.”

When Dean meets Charlie’s gaze, she looks sad. She’s always been sympathetic. He supposes it’s because she knows a certain suffering. She lost her parents not three years ago. They had been travelling to Tavill to visit an old friend as Charlie stayed behind to manage the pub. They never made it, crushed under a rockfall in the Farlee Mountains. Only their guide survived, living to tell her of the sad news.  

“Well,” she says, perking up once again. “I must be off soon. I need to be back at the pub before anyone can get too drunk and start breaking things and I would like to squeeze in a dance or two.” 

“Oh, a dance?” Dean teases and Charlie nudges him with her arm. 

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” It’s not something they speak about out loud – that Charlie likes women in the way that men do. At least, not since Dean found out when they were younger. It had been humiliating for both of them. They had already become good friends but Dean tried for something more and had been rejected. He was _very_ young – and very, well, it was those years when he was discovering more and more about his own anatomy or perhaps his anatomy was discovering more about itself on its own.

Charlie had confessed then after he tried to kiss her and Dean at first had felt like a fool before realising what she had even said. It’s a sin, he knows that. But the way she had trembled in fear just telling him, Dean had told her he would never speak of it to a soul. He would not hurt his friend. And for his part, he could understand her attraction. After all, women are never something Dean can deny. 

She never told anyone else. Not even her parents and he’s not sure whether it’s something she regrets. He only knows that it eats away at her. But somedays she is a lot more hopeful and others. 

She seems to brighten when Dean subtly mentions it. She’s told him before that having that part of herself acknowledged, even if it’s only by him, helps. 

“I know,” he says. “I will see you soon, hopefully.”

“I will be counting on it,” Charlie says, taking one last glance at Castiel before bowing to Dean and being drawn away into the crowd. 

 

______________________________________

 

The festivals in Iowan were like this. It hurts Castiel to even think it. But they were. There were stalls selling art and jewellery. Stalls with games and foods and people drinking and dancing everywhere. 

The last festival they ever held was when the humans attacked. When these humans attacked. He remembers the day as clearly as if it were only yesterday. He remembers that it was a good day. The last day when Castiel was free of pain.

He’d run through the stalls on Kyra and Elaria’s heels. They’d never been able to win any of the games but it was always fun to try. 

_“C’mon, Cas!” Kyra calls, running back to where he’s caught up at the sight of a painting of big, black wings at full spread, blue light swirling all around them and in the clear sky in front of them – souls ascending to paradise. It’s titled ‘The Saviour’. It’s beautiful. “What are you looking at?” Her voice is softer now and he hears the sound of Elaria running over to stand by him as well._

_The sisters peer over in the direction he’s looking. “Oh,” Kyra mutters and without saying anything slips her hand into his. Finally, he sweeps his eyes away from the painting to look down at her hand. She squeezes it back as Elaria slips her hand into his empty one._

_“Beautiful,” she says, as if hearing his own thoughts and Castiel feels a swell of emotion in his chest. He puffs out his own wings at full spread. They’re much bigger than Kyra and Elaria’s – the sister’s wings not even the span of their back and able to be hidden under clothes easily, since in their line of heritage many angels and humans had come together. His own, dark black wings spread out two times his arm span – only to grow larger his mother tells him. The sisters turn him around, careful to duck under his wings and drag him away to the game stall they were heading to._

_As they run, Castiel feels the air rushing through his wings and he feels free._

Then there was the yelling and the screaming. The confusion and the fear. Kyra and Elaria running off to find their parents and Castiel running off to find his own.

It was the last time he saw them. He shoves the memory away before it can become any more painful. 

Castiel watches the people around him, standing behind where Dean, Sam, Leda and her siblings sit now – finished up with their food. 

People smile and laugh, cheer and dance.

If only they knew the truth. If only they knew what it was like – that terror. 

Surprised laughter to his right has him spying Emery standing alongside another bigger guard. They stand up straight, hands behind their back but they smile back at each other, eyes sincere. 

He caught sight of Nicolaus and Salicar too before, milling around with another guard and sending glares in his direction. But they eventually wandered off into the crowds.

Drunken shouting is what draws Castiel’s eyes over to a stall about thirty yards away from them. It must be a game involving throwing daggers because the drunken man in question is spinning one in his hand. 

Castiel waits, unable to quite see through the crowd as the man throws it. There’s a loud squeal and Castiel’s eyes go wide. It’s a pig. And now there’s a dagger in its side. The crowd around the man laugh and cheer – only a few of the women looking away.

Rage fills his senses as he sees the man grab another dagger from the stall beside where the pigs stands. Castiel takes off towards the man unable to hear whatever it is Dean is calling out behind him. 

The man’s about to throw the dagger when Castiel catches his arm and pushes him stumbling backwards. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. 

“Playin’ a game. Who the fuck’re you?” the man retorts and Castiel can hear the crowd of people around them going quiet. 

“And you think _this_ is a game?” The man smirks. He vaguely hears Dean calling his name but the blood is pounding too loudly in his ears now.

“Try to stop me.” The man quickly steps to the side of Castiel and pulls his arm back to throw the dagger. Just as his arm is coming down, Castiel grabs at his hand and bends it until the man drops the knife right into Castiel’s waiting hand where he doesn’t spare a moment before holding it up to his throat. 

The man swallows, eyes wide in shock as people gasp and shout around him. 

“Cas!” Dean yells, and suddenly he’s right there beside him, hands raised carefully as though not to scare him into accidentally cutting the man’s throat. “Cas, just put the knife down, okay?” A glimmer of steel out of the corner of his eye has Castiel finally lowering his knife. The man stumbles a few yards backwards and Castiel clenches his hand around the dagger, eyes hard. Six guards are walking straight towards him but Dean pushes himself in front.

“What is this?” Dean points towards the pig that stands with a dagger still in its side. “What the fuck is it doing here?” The guards all look at each other but have no response. “Then get it back to the pen,” he orders. They don’t hesitate to comply. 

Castiel watches them as they carefully pull the dagger from its side and push it back into a wooden crate that sits behind it before wheeling it away. 

The crowd around them starts to speak again but only in whispers. Dean says his name again but out of the corner of his eye Castiel sees the drunk man throw his hands out wide. “What’s wrong with people around here?” Castiel closes his eyes and breathes. “It’s just a fucking _animal_ ,” he spits.

_“The victory over those animals, the angels.”_

Castiel spins and throws the dagger with all his strength. The drunken man screams, closing his eyes as Dean yells his name. He opens them slowly once he realises he isn’t hurt and jumps back once he sees that the dagger is buried in the ground right at his feet. 

The air is heavy with the silence. 

Castiel’s chest heaves and his jaw clenches hard enough for his teeth to grind against each other painfully.

“Cas?” Dean says, reaching for his arm. Castiel turns and makes his way through the crowd quickly. 

His throat is tight when the whispers start behind him but he keeps walking, making it all the way to the inner gate. The guards there stare at him, unsure whether to stop him. They settle on not trying once he comes closer and Castiel charges straight through and into the garden.

Footsteps and heavy breathing behind him alert him to Dean’s presence. “Cas, stop!”

He doesn’t stop, winding his way through the paths. “You’re being fucking stupid.” His fists clench and his nails bite into his skin. “You’ll get punished for this – Cas, just wait!” He feels a hand brush his shoulder.

He whirls, grabbing Dean’s arm and throws him to the ground where he lands on his back with a thud. He pins him there, one hand securing one of Dean’s hands above his head and the other splayed on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. Some of his wounds open on his back but he can barely feel it. “Then, let them,” he snarls.

His pants hard as he stares at Dean – eyes hurt and confused. He’s too angry to even notice Dean’s other hand come up to gently brush against his own where it lies on Dean’s chest.

He flinches away but this time Dean’s too quick, grabbing his wrist and holding it tightly. Castiel’s chest tightens and he panics, eyes wild.

And then, “Who did this to you? Who made you so angry?”

Castiel startles, blinking and for a second, it’s just him and Dean. His green eyes are soft and caring and his fingers brush lightly against his skin. 

But then everything comes crashing back into him and his throat closes up, tears forming behind his eyes. Hs rips his hand out of Dean’s grasp and takes off towards the castle. He winds his way through the halls and up the stairs until he reaches their chambers, barging in without a moment’s thought – not even caring that he’s leaving Dean behind – that he’s failing at his only job. 

Dean’s steps are loud behind him though and he’s just opening the door to his own personal chambers when he sees Dean in the hall. 

“The guards can find me in here,” he says and with that, he slams the door behind him.

He slides down to the floor and draws his knees up to his chest. He blinks back the tears.

_“Who did this to you?”_

You did, Castiel thinks. _Your father, your people._

_Michael._

_Fate._

His fingers tremble and the rage dissolves into exhaustion and despair. 

He wants to pray. He wants to beg to Leuric. But all that comes out is, “I can’t do this.” And the tears finally spill over the edge as his shoulders start to shake. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this,” he whispers brokenly into the dark.

The dark whispers nothing back.

 

______________________________________

 

His eyes are crusty from his dried tears when he wakes. It’s dawn and he doesn’t want to rise but knows he has to. He heals the wounds on his back slightly more before changing into his uniform. 

He’s about to open his door into their dining hall when he hears voices. Dean and – the king. Castiel hangs his head and curses. This is it and it’s all his fault. He’ll either be killed or sent to the dungeon to rot and he’ll have failed. All because he can’t blend in. Because he’s reckless. 

His face crumples in defeat before breathing through his nose and out his mouth and calming his features. He sends a quick prayer to Leuric and opens the doors. He might as well get it over with.

It appears that Dean and his father are in the middle of quietly arguing. They stand opposite each other in the hall, along with four guards flanking the king. Both of their gaze’s land on Castiel but he holds the king’s. 

“So, I hear you like making ruckuses at my festivals and threatening my guests,” the king says. Castiel keeps his mouth shut. “You must think you are important enough to get away with those things.” John Winchester walks forward until they are eye to eye. “Well, let me make it clear that you are not. And if it wasn’t for your crown prince then I would have no problem chaining you back up to that post.” Relief floods his chest like a wave crashing over him. He has another chance. 

“But instead we’ll settle for something else. Kneel,” the king commands, a smug smile on his face. Castiel looks into his eyes – really looks. They’re dark and cruel. So very _dark_.

Castiel catches Dean’s eyes for a second as he hesitates and the prince glares at him. 

He kneels on the hard, wooden floor, eyes on the king’s immaculate boots.

The king sneers, grabbing his chin and yanking it up until he can’t look anywhere else but his eyes. “Step out of line again and I will break you apart piece by piece until you’re as senseless as one of those fucking pigs you tried to save.” His skin crawls but he doesn’t pull away. 

“Yes, Your Highness,” he says, voice as devoid from emotion as possible. The king grunts, dropping his chin and curtly leaving the room, his guards following swiftly behind him. The door closes with a little more force than usual. 

“You idiot!” Dean yells, walking towards him with irritation clear on his face. “What is wrong with you? When the king says kneel you fucking kneel!” Castiel doesn’t even try to stop him when Dean pushes at his chest, sending him stumbling back into the wall. Dean’s fists are clenched at his sides and his eyes are searching Castiel’s for an answer. 

His own throat feels constricted and his voice cracks as he speaks but it’s low enough for Dean not to notice. “Why do you care?”

Dean’s eyes clear for a moment, the tension seeping from his shoulders before his eyes harden again and he turns on his heel towards his own chambers. The door closes this time with a definite slam and Castiel is left standing alone in their dining hall. 

He takes a seat at the table and finally lets himself slump forward, head in his hands. Why did it have to be him? He can’t survive here. He can’t even seem to restrain his own impulses let alone anything going on around him. He promised before he would try harder to not let it get the better of him but he’s already failed. And only because of Dean – because of the _crown prince_ – is he still here. Only because of him does he still have another chance. 

Michael would most certainly punish Castiel if he even heard his line of thoughts. He would never give up. So, Castiel shouldn’t either. And he won’t. He knows that. But sometimes it feels nice to just give up. To hang his head even if it’s only for a few seconds. 

The main doors opening and the scent of freshly made breakfast has him shooting up from the table. He walks over to Dean’s door and knocks politely as the servants prepare the table. A grunt and a muffled, “Come in,” has Castiel opening the door and lightly shutting it behind him.

Dean’s hunched over at his desk, writing something down in a large book. Castiel takes a breath before speaking. “Breakfast is ready.”

“I’m not hungry.” Dean still doesn’t look up. “Eat what you want and when you finish there I have a lesson with Orderic.”

Castiel opens his mouth to respond but only settles on, “Yes, Your Highness.”

The servants have already departed once he steps back into the dining hall. He takes his seat once again and stares at the food in front of him. 

_He feels sick. As if he might throw up. But there’s nothing in his stomach. He hasn’t eaten in days. It’s not his turn yet. But if only he could have just one bite. Shouldn’t he be allowed just a bite? He’s ten, going on eleven. He’s a growing boy. At least, those are the excuses he uses in his head._

_Before he knows it, he’s up from the dirty ground and sneaking over towards a few sacks of bread that they have with them. There’s not a lot there. And for a moment, the guilt is so present in his mind that he almost turns away._

_Just one bite, he thinks. One bite won’t hurt. He’s as silent as he can possibly be as he reaches into the sack._

_He barely grazes the bread before someone’s hand is clamping down on his right wing and pulling him away. He lets out a breath of relief when he sees it’s only Michael._

_But suddenly, Michael is grabbing him by the arm and roughly pulling him away._

_“What is it you think you’re doing?” Michael fumes, his hand tightening on Castiel’s thin arm. Castiel grimaces trying to pull it away but to no avail._

_“I’m sorry, Michael. I was just going to have a little bit. I’m so hungry,” he responds._

_“Well, we’re all hungry. Didn’t you think about that, Castiel? Do you not think I’m hungry?”_

_“I know, Michael but--”_

_“No buts’, Castiel. You should be the last person to have any. You will not have any until you’re assigned, are we clear?” Michael sounds angrier than Castiel has ever heard him and his grip only gets tighter and tighter until he swears he can feel bones grinding together._

_His eyes fill with tears but he quickly blinks them away. “Yes, Michael. I promise I won’t do it again.” The relief when Michael lets him go has him stumbling backwards. For the first time in his life his brother scares him. He’s never seen his brother like this before – so cold and hard._

_“Good. We are in war, Castiel. It’s time you stopped acting like a child. You are warrior now.”_

_Michael leaves him in the dark to find his own way back. He wants to curl into a ball and cry. He wants his mother to cradle him in his arms. He wants Kyra and Elaria to take either of his hands and squeeze them tight. But he can’t have that anymore. And now Michael – the last person he has left – now he has been taken by the invasion too._

_Is this what it feels like to be a warrior? Somehow, he doesn’t think so._

Castiel glares holes into the food in front of him. That was only the start. Thinking about it just _now_ makes him feel sick. He stands from the table. He can’t do this today. 

He doesn’t bother knocking, opening Dean’s door and poking his head around to see the prince still at his desk. “You’re finished?” Dean asks, eyes focused on a new book he’s holding in his hands. 

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“I said you could call me Dean when we are alone.”

Castiel swallows. “Oh. My apologies, Dean.” Dean looks up then, eyes narrowed as he shuts the book and walks over to the door. 

“Well, let’s get to the library.”

“Of course,” Castiel says, closing the door behind them. He notices Dean’s eyes flicking towards the food – or the lack of eaten food – as he passes it and subsequently towards Castiel as he walks beside him. 

But he doesn’t say anything and for that, Castiel is grateful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION: Unfortunately, I'm going to be inredibly busy (and therefore a tad stressed out XD) for the rest of this month and so I've decided to have a mini hiatus. The next chapter will be up on Saturday the 30th, at the normal ~8-9pm AEST time. I'm really sorry about this :( but don't fret because it's literally only for this month and then after that I won't be busy anymore and the normal schedule will resume. Also I was super stressed out about the rest of this month and that's why I wasn't able to get this chapter up in time. Thank you all for being so patient! <3
> 
> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed! 
> 
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> 
> [My Tumblr](http://angvlicmish.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

Everyone turns to stare when Castiel enters the meeting room behind Dean – news must have spread about the festival. Dean wonders what he’s thinking – whether Castiel cares about their stares at all. At least his father isn’t here. He doesn’t want to live through that again.

And he still doesn’t really know why he was so angry at Castiel for nearly getting himself killed. 

_Why do you care?_

_Because you’re my only chance at proving myself._

At least that should have been the answer. But Dean had frozen, unsure of himself – unsure of whether that answer is the only reason. 

The last of the generals walk in and he pushes the thought away. He doesn’t want to think about it now.

The meeting begins, tension arising in the room as they speak of the success of the festival. Dean sees Dimarus staring at Castiel from across the table but none of the other men dare to look in his direction now. 

They quickly move on to discuss the meeting with the mayor of Lithos and Dean tries not to feel the burn of humiliation that spreads through his veins. He’ll be meeting with the man in eight days, meaning he’ll have to depart in four. 

He’s told that he must give them no more than four thousand silver coins to help their town get back to business and in one cycle of the moon, someone will be sent down to inspect and see if they’re actually putting it to good use. If there is no improvement, of course, they won’t be receiving any more help from the royals and the mayor will be punished – which is most likely the case since the mayor has never used any of the money they’ve given them to help the town.

It’s the basics – nothing Dean can’t handle. But that doesn’t make it any less humiliating. 

He’s only half listening to the rest of the meeting when he hears his name again. “And of course, Prince Dean, the king wants to speak to you about your travels to Narla by the end of the day.”

Dean nods to the general who has spoken and finally the meeting is over. He doesn’t stay behind this time, heading straight for the throne room. Light steps following him alert him to Castiel’s presence whom he’d nearly outright forgotten about. Somehow though, his presence is soothing. That is until he reaches the doors of the throne room. 

“It’s probably best that you wait out here.” Castiel nods, stepping aside as Dean enters. His father is standing beside the throne in deep conversation with a guard but he notices Dean immediately, ushering him forward.

He doesn’t bother with greetings, launching into what he wants to speak to Dean about. “I don’t want you going alone with your guard so I will be sending additional guards for your protection.” Dean almost retorts – Castiel isn’t a threat to him anymore – but his mind catches up with the rest of his father’s words and he feels something swell inside his chest. He thinks it might be joy. Because his father actually cares anough about his safety to send additional guards. Or maybe because it’s today. The anniversary of the day that his father finally told him that his mother had gone missing two nights before. That she wasn’t busy yesterday – what Dean had been told when he had asked – but gone. That _that_ night was the night the angels infiltrated the castle and took his mother from her chambers – the very creatures she had been visiting every third moon for years to deal with. The very creatures she trusted. But the worst of it was that they had woken up to great news that morning. That the war had been won within a matter of hours. They had taken Iowan and all the angels within it by just after midnight. 

And it had all come crashing down when his father had not celebreated the news. He had only become angrier. Because they had taken all angels except those who took his wife. 

Dean swallows the emotions rising quickly – he can’t let his father see.

“I thought I already had additional guards coming with me,” he responds, remembering that they talked about how four other guards were coming – as is standard – at one of his other meetings.

“Yes, well, now I’m adding another four. You will take two carriages and he will ride separate.”

Dean scoffs now – he can’t help it – and his father glowers at him. “If he was going to kill me, he would have done it already.”

His father says nothing for a moment and Dean is suddenly distinctly aware of the king’s guard in the room listening. “You _will_ take two carriages and he _will_ ride separate. Are we clear?”

Relief washes over him – it could have been far worse. “Yes, father.”

“Then get out.”

Dean bows but his father has already turned away. He leaves the room as quickly as possible and Castiel is there – always there, with a concerned look in his eye.

“How did it go?” Dean sighs and Castiel nods. He doesn’t have to say anything more. 

 

______________________________________

 

Dean pants hard when Castiel finally let’s go of him. His hand aches slightly but ever since Castiel did that _thing_ , it’s been slowly getting better each day. 

“We should take a break,” Castiel says, and if it wasn’t for the sweat beading at his forehead, no one would be able to tell he had even exerted himself.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” Dean slumps down in the grass as ungracefully as possible, shaking his hand out. 

“Does it still hurt?” Castiel kneels in front of him, hand out. 

“It’ okay,” he starts, holding his hand out for Castiel to inspect. “I mean, it hurts when we fight but it’s been getting a lot better.” Castiel presses his thumb down at his wrist but not enough for it to ache. 

“It looks like it should be all healed in a few days,” he says, meeting Dean’s eyes as he drops his hand away. Dean shakes his hand out as he pulls it to his chest and there’s the slightest sense of relief. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, watching as Castiel – as gracefully as possible – sits down cross legged beside him. Neither of them cares that the ground is wet from the snow that fell this morning. They’re both wet from their training session, anyway. Castiel’s face is turned out towards the roaming hills. There’s a nice breeze coming in – even if it’s a little cold – and it ruffles Castiel’s hair and even has him closing his eyes for a moment. 

He looks almost…peaceful. It looks out of place on him. 

Dean watches, not really knowing what to think. Suddenly, Castiel’s eyes are open and on him – as if he’s sensed him watching. Dean quickly flicks his own away, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. 

“So – uh – how are you such a good fighter?” Castiel tilts his head to the side in that birdlike gesture. 

“I already told you. My brother taught me.”

“Yeah, I know. But I mean, last night the way you had me on the ground in seconds and – and the dagger you threw? Were you aiming for his feet or was that just luck?”

Castiel raises one eyebrow. “Did you think I was going to kill him?”

Dean shrugs. “No, not really but in the moment…I think we all thought it.” Castiel looks down at where his hands are picking at the grass in front of him. He frowns, as if what Dean has said has upset him. 

“I was aiming for his feet. I was never going to hurt him.”

Dean nods. “Right.” He pauses, chewing on his bottom lip. “But how did you… Do you think I would ever be able to do something like that?”

Castiel shrugs and if anything, his frown deepens. “It depends.” Disappointment pools in Dean’s gut. 

“Okay. So, what does that mean? You don’t think I can--”

“I do, Dean. I think you are physically capable of all of these things. You’ve proven that already. But…” Dean waits for Castiel to speak again, the disappointment already replaced with a swell of warmth in his chest. “To get to where I am now, all I did was train. Every day and every night. It was…” Castiel stares ahead, his eyes glazing over. “Hard.”

Dean can tell that it’s not the right word. And he wants to ask it now. About the scars – about if it was his brother. He feels it surging up inside of him but he doesn’t want to lose his chance. What if it’s too soon? What if Castiel doesn’t trust him? But he can’t wait much longer. It’s digging away inside of him and he needs to know – he wants to know--

“You have other things to work towards than just becoming the best fighter,” Castiel says, and Dean feels the question die on his tongue. “But if that’s all you want then get up.”

Castiel is up to his feet in a second and Dean slowly after him. He’s not sure how he feels about what Castiel has told him. He doesn’t need to be as good as him. But he won’t give this up because he has ‘other things to work towards’. He already knows his father doesn’t even want him to take the throne. If he could choose, he would pick Sam over him any day. There’s a reason he hasn’t been married off to some nice noble lady.

“Get back into your stance,” Castiel says, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Dean hesitates. “Can you teach me how you got me on the ground so quickly last night?” Castiel pauses in thought.

“I suppose.” Dean smiles, feeling a thrill of excitement. “Stand behind me and place your hand on my right shoulder.” Dean does so, lifting his right hand to rest it on Castiel’s shoulder as he did the other night.

“Now I’ll demonstrate slowly.” Castiel turns, grabbing Dean’s wrist with his left hand and placing his right palm against Dean’s chest. “I’ll use my left hand to pull you towards the ground and my right hand to help push you down. As I do so, I’ll stick my left foot out behind you so you’ll trip and it will be much easier to get you on the ground. If you grabbed my shoulder with your left hand, I will just switch the position of my hands and push you the other way. Got it?”

Dean nods and they quickly switch positions. They start slow, Dean going through the motions to get used to it and then after he’s done that they do it properly. The first time, Castiel swiftly pulls out of his grasp. Dean gapes as Castiel raises his eyebrows innocently.

“You have to be quicker than that,” he says. Determination flares inside of Dean.

He tries again. And again. On the fifth attempt, he nearly trips him but Castiel pulls Dean forward with him and it somehow ends up with Dean on his ass and Castiel still standing above him. Dean groans, clenching his hands into fists.

He’s not sure how long they train for but finally, _finally_ , Castiel trips over his foot, falling onto his back with a thud. Dean’s down, pinning him in a second with the widest grin on his face. It’s possibly the most satisfying feeling he’s ever experienced.

But Castiel is lying, blue eyes unblinking below him with a blank face. Dean’s grin fades. He sits back on his haunches, hands crossed over his chest.

“You let me have that one, didn’t you?”

Castiel rolls over onto his feet. “I may have let my guard down for a moment. We’ll have to work on your pinning as well. I could have easily gotten the upper hand.”

Dean lets his head fall back, eyes slipping shit but he’s too tired to be annoyed. 

“It’s getting dark. We should head back now.” Dean runs a hand over his face and when he opens his eyes there’s a hand extended out in front of him. Dean stares at it before blinking. Castiel’s face is once again blank but Dean notices the slight heave of his chest. He doesn’t think about it. He goes for it, grabbing Castiel’s hand with his own. 

It’s warm despite the weather and calloused like his own. Castiel pulls him to his feet and Dean finds himself standing only inches away from the other man, his breath curling visibly in the cool air. 

Dean holds it for longer than he should, watching as Castiel blinks, jaw clenching and finally pulls away. “We should…” Castiel swallows and Dean catches himself watching as his throat bobs, “…head back now.”

“Right,” Dean says, but he doesn’t go to walk away. Castiel flicks his gaze towards the ground, his eyes filled with something Dean can’t quite make out and walks back towards the horses. 

Dean’s not sure what that was. He wants to think that it was Castiel trying to tell him he trusts him. He can’t say for certain. But if it was…he mentally kicks himself for not asking before. About Castiel’s scars. About his fear of intimate touch. 

They lead their horses back at a slow pace, just wandering. It is dark now. They stayed a bit too long training this evening. But it was worth it. 

He trots beside Castiel and gazes over towards him only to find him already looking in Dean’s direction. His eyes flick away quickly and he looks down – almost embarrassed. 

He’s not quite sure what that’s about either. Castiel certainly hasn’t had a problem staring him down before. He frowns, looking back towards the castle and trots on.

 

______________________________________

 

Dinner is quiet. Well, not exactly quiet. Sam rattles on to Mervyn next to them and some of the guards and generals around them are obnoxiously loud but…Dean is quiet. Castiel is quiet too – although that’s not unusual. 

He can barely look at Dean without the tips of his ears turning a humiliating red. But luckily for him, Dean is quiet. 

He assumes Dean’s thinking about him lending a hand. He hadn’t really thought about it. He’d just done it. And then he couldn’t pull it away. He couldn’t falter. Couldn’t stumble. Couldn’t show his weakness. But he already knows by now that Dean _knows_.  

The silence on the walk back to their chambers is almost suffocating. They don’t talk a lot usually but there’s always something here or there. So, when they find themselves standing in the dining hall between their chambers, it’s strange.

Castiel wishes Dean a goodnight without even meeting his eyes and he only hears Dean’s response just as he shuts his door behind him. 

He’d forgotten himself for a moment. He’d forgotten where he was. Here, he’s a human. He has to abide by their rules. But Dean was there, stiflingly beautiful above him, the orange glow of the sunset shaping his cheekbones and jaw. Highlighting the freckles dotting his face. 

And that smile. He wasn’t allowed to get lost in other boys around Michael. It’s nothing but a distraction, he said. It’s nothing but another weakness. 

_“Why is it a weakness?”_

_“Because when you care about someone they can be used against you.”_

_“What about me?”_

_“What about you?”_

_“Do you care about me, Michael?” Michael hesitates and a small glimmer of light clears his eyes before they darken again._

_“No, Castiel. And you should not care for me. I could be used against you one day as a weakness. And we can’t have that, can we?”_

Castiel had shaken his head, a small ‘no’ falling from his lips. The ache in his chest had been there for a whole week – even after everything. 

Now he falls asleep, tense and afraid. Ready to dream of blood and bodies and fire. Ready to dream of drowning. 

But he only finds himself drowning in the green eyes that smile at him from above. 

 

______________________________________

 

Four days later they are packed and ready to leave for Narla. Two carriages are waiting for them just outside the inner gates after lunch, along with eight additional guards. 

Dean is not in the best mood – he can tell that much. They haven’t seen the king since their chat. It seems he isn’t even here to send them off. 

Sam comes, of course, smiling and telling them to have a good time, oblivious to what this means to Dean – to how humiliating it is for him.

Castiel doesn’t care. If anything, he’s glad. Finally, some time outside of the castle walls.

Dean ushers Castiel into the carriage first before following after and sitting across from him. 

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” a guard calls from outside and Dean leans forward in his seat to meet the man’s eyes. “We were ordered by the king to keep you and your – uh – personal guard in separate carriages.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. 

“The orders have changed. He’ll stay in here with me.”

“But Your Highness--”

“If you have an issue with that, you can take it up with the king. Although you might have to be quick as we are leaving right about…now.”

The guard opens and closes his mouth about three times before finally bowing and hopping onto the other carriage. 

Dean closes the door with a slam and they are suddenly alone.

“Am I still considered a danger to you?”

Dean sniffs, relaxing back into his seat as the carriage starts to pull away. “Some might say that.” Castiel’s brows pinch together.

“Dean, I don’t want to get you in trouble with your father. I will be fine to ride in the other--”

“No, I don’t want to spend this whole ride sitting with some imbecile who I don’t even like.”

The corner of Castiel’s lips pull into the tiniest of smiles. “Like?”

Dean stares at him in confusion before clearing his throat awkwardly. “Alright, don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Tolerable would be more like it.”

“Tolerable,” Castiel repeats, acting as though he’s thinking about it. “I suppose I could say you are tolerable as well.”

Dean huffs, his own smile pulling at his lips. A loud sound outside indicates they’ve reached the outer wall and are now passing through it. 

Dean looks down at his nails, picking at the tiny amount of dirt that is stuck underneath them.

He doesn’t realise there’s an angel sitting across from him. He doesn’t realise his greatest enemy has been taken in and out of his own castle within only the span of half a moon. 

Castiel rests his head back against the carriage and closes his eyes. And for a small, fleeting moment he thinks about praying to Leuric to ask for him to be able to get out of this without hurting the crown prince. 

The crown prince. Prince Winchester. His _own_ greatest enemy. 

Castiel banishes the thought from his head and now all he can hear is ‘weak, weak, weak’ all over again inside his head. 

Dean glances up at him and shoots him a quick smile as the horses pick up the pace and they get on their way. Castiel looks out the small window, praying instead to Leuric for more strength than his god can probably give. 

 

______________________________________

 

It’s still light when they pull up outside the luxurious inn they will be staying at overnight, but it’s fading quickly. They’re on the outskirts of Anathee now but it’s still filled with nobles walking through the streets, dressed from head to toe in their finest garments, ladies pulling up the hems of their dresses so they don’t drag through the snow. 

Dean is speaking to a fellow guard as a few smaller boys carry their luggage inside. Castiel observes up and down the street until he finds himself watching a group of ladies who have stopped outside a pub to have a chat. It’s completely innocent except for the man lingering around them, eyes flicking in each and every direction.

“Your Highness,” Castiel says, voice raised to catch the prince’s attention. 

“What?” Dean spins around to face him.

“Would you like a chance to put your new training to the test?” Dean narrows his eyes.

“Why? What’s going on?” 

“That man,” Castiel says, nodding his head in the direction of the group of ladies. “He’s about to rob one of those lady’s.”

“How do you know--” The man dashes in towards one of the ladies and snatches a purse from her grasp. “Hey!” Dean yells. The man looks up with wide eyes and seeing Dean from across the street, takes off. Castiel sighs.

“You’ve already failed.” He doesn’t stay any longer, sprinting off after him. He slips a small dagger out from a sheath on his thigh and holds it tight between his fingers as he runs up level with the man. The man ahead doesn’t see him coming nor does he see the dagger flying towards him. 

He yelps, nearly tripping face first into the cobbles when it hits but luckily regains his footing and turns off down a side street. 

Castiel halts in his steps and much to his amusement hears pounding footsteps slowing behind him.

“What was that?” Dean says, and Castiel’s delighted to hear that he’s not so out of breath. “Aren’t you going to go after him?”

“It’s not worth it,” he says, stepping his way over to where the small purse lies on the ground, his dagger pierced through it. 

“Wait? You did that?” Castiel nods. Dean’s eyes light up. “Shit, Cas, you gotta teach me how to do that.”

Castiel huffs. 

He makes sure none of the coins in the lady’s purse have fallen out before walking back to hand it to her. “My apologies for the damage,” he says, handing the purse over. The lady blushes, taking it from his hands. 

“Oh my, I cannot thank you enough. Is there anything I can do to repay you?” she says, batting her eyelashes suggestively as she eyes him up and down.

“I’m just happy to be of service.” Suddenly, an arm is sliding around his shoulder.

“Actually, what Castiel here is trying to say is that--”

“I’m really just happy to be of ser--”

“You’re Prince Winchester!” one of the ladies cuts him off. “Oh, Your Highness, it is such a pleasure to finally speak to you in person,” she says, and all of the ladies bow as one.

“It is such a pleasure to meet such a lovely group of ladies,” Dean says, arm disappearing from Castiel’s shoulders. 

“Why thank you. And of course, if there is anything we could do for you…or your friend here…”

“Did you hear that, Cas?” Dean says, and Castiel’s patience is really wearing thin now. Shouldn’t Dean know– even if he did like women –  that this would be the worst possible--

Castiel stops in his thoughts as he sees the expression on Dean’s face. It’s barely there but he can see it clearly now. Dean is testing him. Of course he is. Castiel grinds his teeth.

“Unfortunately, ladies, we must be going. We have lots to discuss for our trip ahead,” Castiel says, bowing at the waist and turning to eye Dean. Dean stares at him but there is no surprise hidden there.

Satisfied with Castiel’s answer, Dean speaks, “Yes, unfortunately we must get going but it was a pleasure to meet you all.” Dean nods and the ladies bow one last time before the two of them make their way back across the street to where the carriages are still being unloaded. There’s a tension between them now and Castiel can practically feel Dean itching to ask more questions. 

He only has to wait a few seconds. “You know what was happening--”

Castiel cuts him off before he can even get started on this absurd interrogation. “I’m not sure if you noticed but we aren’t here to run around with the town’s women. We have a job to do and I know you don’t like it but that’s how it is.”

Dean doesn’t respond for a moment but Castiel can feel his eyes on the side of his face. When he finally opens his mouth, a guard interrupts him.

“The rooms are ready with your things, Your Highness. Would you like to go in and get comfortable?”

Dean sighs, nodding and leads the way inside the inn.

They run over what they will be doing and what Dean needs to be discussing with the mayor of Lithos before they settle down for the night. Castiel doesn’t question when two guards stand in the hall separating Castiel and Dean’s rooms. 

His room, however, looks as though it was thrown together at the last minute. A large storage closet with only one exit, one window and an air vent – neither of which Castiel could possibly fit through.

He wonders what would happen if he did leave. Would he be hunted? Would they come after him? Or would they think the worst? 

What would he do with his wings? If he died, would they perish with him – never to be found? Or would they find them?

Would Dean miss him?

He hates that it’s the last thing he thinks. Dean is nothing to him. He is just another human. 

And yet he can’t stop wondering would he even care if he left?

 

______________________________________

 

When they reach Kalapell, Dean doesn’t say anything. Some of the guards shoot him looks or smug smiles as if it will affect him. Little do they know, Castiel doesn’t care at all. He’s only surprised that Dean doesn’t join them with snide remarks or a teasing here or there.

And in the morning, when Castiel greets Dean, the prince looks surprised. As if perhaps he thought this is where Castiel would try to leave. Where it all started – it would also end. 

As if, Castiel’s room wasn’t locked tight with guards standing outside. 

But the surprise on his face soon vanishes and Castiel finds Dean in the cheeriest mood he’s been in since they left the castle. 

He’s not sure what to make of it and after a while he lets himself forget about it. He _makes_ himself forget about it.

 

______________________________________

 

After a two-night stay in Kalapell – since receiving word that the mayor wouldn’t be reaching them until the nineteenth – they finally arrive in Narla. It’s a big town that mostly profits off their production of armour and weapons. 

They spend their afternoon at the inn they are staying at until an informant comes to tell them the mayor of Lithos is here and waiting for them at the mayor of Narla’s office. Dean is actually grateful that they finally have something to do.

The evening air is cool but nice outside and instead of taking the carriages for a short trip down the street, they walk. 

There’s not too many people out but Castiel’s sure there will be soon. Dean walks up just ahead of him with four guards surrounding him. Somehow, not many people seem to notice, hurrying about their evening to either get inside before night draws over or to get back to prepare for a night out. 

Castiel hangs back with another two guards – the last two having stayed back at the inn – and observes them. They don’t seem focused on the prince – let alone him – eyes flicking everywhere and one even looking plain bored. 

Not that Castiel can blame him but he has some feeling that these aren’t the finest guards that the king could have sent along with them. 

A shout from across the street has him gazing over to where two men bicker over something outside a dress shop, waving hands frantically and Castiel flicks his eyes around the area to perhaps see if he can figure out what the problem is.

A man, well dressed and straight backed, walks innocently with purpose in the other direction. Another man is attempting to sell something to a lady passing--

Castiel’s feet trip on the cobbles but his eyes don’t leave the lady. The lady with dark skin and a sharp jaw. A slim figure and short, kinky hair. So familiar and yet so different. It couldn’t be. It’s only then he notices the bulky cloak hiding her shoulders – hiding _something_ – as she continues to walk in the opposite direction.

His heart lurches in his throat. He doesn’t even realise he’s stopped in his tracks. He doesn’t even think to look ahead – instead his feet carry him towards her. Pressure builds in his chest and it’s terrifying. _Hope_ , his heart says. _This is what that feels like._  

His eyes well up and he’s finding it hard to breathe with each step closer until he’s running towards her – a hand on her shoulder – enough to feel nothing underneath but he can’t stop – “ _Kyra_.”

The woman jumps but doesn’t scream. She looks concerned. 

Castiel’s heart thumps in his chest but the tears still spill over as the pressure in his chest overwhelms him. 

“Is everything alright, sir?”

He closes his eyes. “No, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” His voice breaks as he stumbles backwards. 

She reaches a hand out toward him but he turns and he runs, vision blurred until he stops on the other side of the street. He braces a hand against the wall of a pub and bends over at the knees. His throat burns. He wants to wretch. He wants to scream.

He wipes a hand across his face, wipes away the tears.

He needs to get back to Dean. He needs to forget about this. _They can’t see you like this_ , the voice whispers. 

_Weak_ , the voice says.

_Weak_ , Castiel thinks.

He straightens up and breathes. He looks up expecting to find Dean and his guards somewhere in the distance – them staring at him strangely – or even him having completely gone unnoticed and they having continued to walk up the street without him.

Instead he finds it empty of any guards or prince. Completely and utterly empty.

Panic spikes in his chest as he takes off down the street.

They could already be at the mayor’s office. But they could never have reached it so quickly. He was only gone for a few moments. So, where could they be? His legs pump harder now until he sees it – an overturned barrel at the edge of an alleyway. 

He screeches to a halt when he gets there and quickly runs down it – night is drawing over now but he can still easily make out the six figures lying in different places down the alley. 

Six. Only six. Panic sweeps over him once more.

The first guard is unconscious so he runs straight to the second and grabs him by his doublet. “What happened? Where is Dean?” he orders, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. Why is he afraid? He shakes the thought from his head.

The guard squirms and groans. “They took him.” They? Who would take Dean? Was it planned or not? From the looks of the guards in the alley it seems planned. 

“Where? Where did they take him?” The guard shakes his head. Castiel lets him drop and moves onto the next one and the next one until the fifth sits up against the wall, a hand to his head and points down the alley.

“They went right. They went that way.”

Castiel doesn’t waste any more precious seconds, sprinting down the alley but before he reaches the end, he scales the wall and climbs onto the roof – not wanting anyone to see him come out – and sweeps his gaze over the area.

But it’s too late. People are out now, crowding the streets as they take off in each and every direction. Castiel clenches his fists so tight that it hurts. 

He looks for anything – another disturbance – _anything_. 

He’s there for what feels like minutes, every moment is a moment in which Dean could be--

There’s a man standing at the entrance of another alley, his eyes focused on the one Castiel just climbed out of. He’s in dark clothes, nearly completely overtaken by shadows. 

He waits there for another minute or so before pulling his hood down and walking away. It’s barely anything but it’s all he has. 

Castiel finds his way across the street and back onto the rooftops as swiftly as he can, finding the hooded man and following him through a few more alleys and streets before he’s lead to a small warehouse – a place that appears as though it used to be an armoury. 

The man looks around the entrance, scanning up and down the streets before entering, the door closing behind him with a heavy sound. Locked. He won’t be able to get in there. He makes his way down onto the bare street, careful still to stay in the shadows in case someone is watching from the warehouse.

He finds a thin window on the eastern side and carefully peeks through. The wave of relief that courses through him is immense when he spots Dean in the centre of the warehouse. His hands are tied with rope behind his back and a hood is over his head but Castiel can still tell the prince is mouthing off to whoever is speaking with him. 

He spies five men in total, including the one that only just entered. They must be skilled enough fighters to take down six royal guards and capture the prince all in a matter of moments. 

The centre of the warehouse – where Dean kneels – is bare but it’s completely surrounded by crates and shelves, carrying old run-down metals and tools. It’s dark, only a few candles dotted here and there. 

It’s enough. He spits in his palm and runs it over the outside of the window before carefully pushing it forward. He waits. It doesn’t make a sound and none of the men look in his direction. He pushes it forward until he can squeeze through and with a quick prayer to Leuric, drops silently down onto the floor behind a stack of crates. 

“--you know that, right?” Dean is saying once he can finally hear. The distinct crack of a fist hitting someone’s face echoes through the warehouse.

“I would stop talking if I was you.”

“I would let me go now or--” Dean screams out in agony just as Castiel drops a piece of metal to the ground. Even with his screaming, Castiel can tell all of the other men have gone silent. 

“What was that?”

Dean suddenly breaks into pained laughter. “I told you he was coming. I told you.” Castiel almost wants to scream at Dean. This will ruin it. They can’t know someone’s coming. But it’s easy to tell he’s scared – his voice almost trembling.

“Jes. How many were there back there?” 

“We got them all. All six of ‘em. And none of them came out of the alleyway, I promise you that.” 

Dean laughs again. “What about the seventh? You know, black hair, blue eyes. Looks like he could fucking kill you with one hand.” Another crunch followed by a heavy thud and Dean goes silent.

“Go look. No, just you. _Now_ ,” the man in charge commands. Castiel wedges himself in between two stacks of crates and waits. He hears it, the hesitant footsteps. And then he sees it, the sword held out with two hands. 

Castiel swings a large piece of metal into the man’s stomach and as he curls forward, crying out, Castiel delivers a blow to his head. 

He goes down heavily.

“Fuck, he’s right. Someone’s here. What do we do now?”

“Don’t panic. It’s four against one. And I have what he wants.” Castiel clenches his teeth as he hears a few shuffled movements from the man. “Alright. Whoever’s out there. You wanna play? We’ll play.” 

Castiel sweeps around the back of the warehouse and knocks something else over before returning back to his position on the eastern side. He finds a gap between some crates and looks through. The man holds a knife to Dean’s throat. Dean himself is limp in his arms, his clothes soaked with red around his stomach. 

“Both of you now.”

“But isn’t this what he wants?”

“Yes,” he hisses, “But we can’t--” The man jerks his head towards Dean. Castiel’s eyes widen. He understands. Whatever this is – they don’t want to kill Dean. Maybe this will not be so hard after all. 

He watches the two men disappear around the corner. He waits until he’s sure they’re far enough away and makes his move. He climbs onto a shelf, still hidden from view and positions himself above the fourth man, standing below him, sword out. 

He takes a quick breath before jumping down on top of the man. The man crumples under his weight, crying out but Castiel is already pulling a dagger from his sheath and throwing it across the room where it lands in the flesh of the leader’s arm. 

The man drops Dean, who lands heavily on the floor, and screams. He falls to his knees just as Castiel hears the footsteps of the other two men, rounding back into the middle of the warehouse. He pulls his swords from his sheathes and readies his stance, making sure he doesn’t turn his back on the leader.

The other men’s eyes immediately fall onto the man on the ground and their leader’s arm. Castiel takes that small moment of distraction to charge forward. The man parries weakly against one of Castiel’s sword as the other sweeps in across the front of his thigh – deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to do anything too harmful. 

That man drops, more screams echoing off the walls as Castiel turns in time to parry the other man’s sword. A glimpse into his eyes shows he’s afraid but Castiel doesn’t go easy on him, throwing his best at him and having the man squirming on the ground in a matter of moments. 

He hears it just in time to dive out of the way – the leader charging past with his sword where Castiel was just standing. He rolls back onto his feet, swords out. The man is swaying, holding one hand to his bleeding arm – his dagger no longer pierced there. 

Castiel sheathes one of his own swords and straightens.

“You people. You won’t get away with this forever. You will all fall!” He charges again and Castiel only has to move to the side and let him charge right into Castiel’s waiting foot. He trips over it, falling into the floor, face first. 

Castiel places a knee into his back and pushes him down further. The man whimpers in pain.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please don’t hurt me.” Castiel feels sorry for him. Even if he doesn’t know why they’re doing this, he knows it’s all about the Winchesters. All about the king.

“Be quiet and listen to me,” Castiel hisses and the man stops whimpering, eyes filling with fear. “I’m not going to hurt you anymore than I have already, alright? I don’t care why you’re doing this. If you want to keep breathing, you must go now.” The man’s eyes widen. “Take your men and leave the city tonight. This, here – won’t be taken lightly by the king. He will find you and you will die a slow and painful death. Is that what you want?” The man shakes his head. “Good. Then go quickly. Before the prince wakes.”

Castiel pulls the man to his feet. He stumbles to find his footing but when he does, he looks at Castiel with something between a mix of awe and terror. “Why… Who are you?”

Castiel wants to tell him. Wants to tell him to keep hope. That there are others out there who stand against the king. But he can’t. 

“If you don’t leave now, I will kill you myself.” The man nods jerkily and runs over to pull up his friends. They are all conscious now except for the one that is still behind the crates. Castiel waits, watching as they carry him out of the warehouse – and with one glance behind from the leader, disappear into the dark.

Castiel runs over to Dean, pulling the bag off his head and grabbing his bloody dagger from the ground to cut through the rope tying his hands. Dean moans, his eyes fluttering open. The blood coming from the wound in his stomach seems to have stopped but he can’t be too safe.

“Cas? Is that you?” Dean’s eyes flutter closed once again as Castiel rips one of Dean’s sleeves off. He folds it until it’s thick and presses it to Dean’s stomach. It seems to staunch most of the flow – the wound, while painful, must not be fattally deep – and for that Castiel is incredibly thankful. 

“Yes, it’s me. Are you still here?” There’s a cut on Dean’s lip too and a bruise already forming on his cheek.

“Where were you?” Dean coughs, voice small. Castiel guides Dean’s hand to hold Castiel’s makeshift cloth against his stomach, his own now covered in Dean’s blood. He inhales through his own fear – chest tightening.

“Can you hold this here for me? Dean?” Dean nods, eyes opening once more as he holds the cloth down. Castiel quickly wipes as much of the blood onto his trousers as he can before any memories can catch him off guard.

“You weren’t…Cas, what happened to…” Dean coughs again, words slurred. 

“You’ve been hit in the head, Dean. You can ask questions later but for now we need to get back to the inn. Do you think you can stand?” 

Dean nods and Castiel grabs his arm to wrap over his own shoulder. Dean clutches tight at him and Castiel hooks an arm around his waist and secures his wrist before attempting to pull him up. Dean staggers at first, grimacing until he finally finds his feet.

“Okay, now. Just one step at a time, alright?” Dean’s heavy but Castiel took no hits in the fight, leaving all of his own strength intact. When they step out of the warehouse, it’s dark and abandoned. But the light from the main streets guide them. Castiel sticks to back alleys, however, not wanting to draw attention. 

Dean groans and mumbles as they walk, fatigue and pain leaving his lids heavy and threatening to close. But eventually, they get there, coming around the back entrance of the inn. Castiel awkwardly holds Dean up as he knocks on the back door. 

He knocks again when no one comes and he’s about to kick it down when a guard opens it up. His face drops and he quickly scrambles out of the way as Castiel pushes inside. 

Suddenly, all of the guards are around him and Dean’s being pried out his arms, his own being pulled taut behind his back. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it all but doesn’t fight against it. He saved Dean and still he is deemed a threat. The room is loud with guards shouting separate orders at each other – one of which commands Castiel be taken to his room and kept there until the prince is okay. 

Castiel lets them lead him out, not even bothering until Dean’s voice cuts through the shouting. “Cas – don’t – where’s Cas?” Dean says, voice strong despite everything. The guards pause where they are but don’t let go of him.

“He is here, Your Highness, but the king ordered us--”

“Don’t leave,” Dean says, delirious now, as he tries to sit up from where the guards have placed him on a bare table in the inn’s back room. “Cas – where--” 

Castiel shrugs off the guard’s now weakened grip and pushes past to get beside the table. “I’m here, Dean.” Dean’s eyes fly around the room, trying to locate where his voice is from until finally he finds him. He slumps back down with a pained groan.

“Don’t let them take m…” 

It’s all he can muster up before his eyes close for good.

 

______________________________________

 

Dean wakes to a horrible pain in his stomach. He moans, lids heavy and body sluggish. He opens his eyes slowly until he finds himself staring at a wooden ceiling. The room is warm. Too warm. 

_Where am I?_

“Your Highness, you’re awake!” Dean rolls his head to the side to see a guard standing to the side of the bed he’s lying on but the light is too harsh and he has to blink a couple of times before everything comes into focus. Another guard steps into his line of sight – no, Castiel. 

And then it comes back to him. The alley, the bag over his head and the rope binding his wrists, the knife to his stomach and – and Castiel. Saving him. 

“Are you alright, Your Highness,” the guard asks, and Dean nods jerkily, his hand going to his stomach to feel the bandages underneath his shirt. 

“I’m fine,” he grunts, pushing himself up to a sitting position as a glass of water is pushed in front of his face. 

“You should drink,” Castiel says bluntly, face blank. Dean takes it, cradling it in both hands and gulps it all down in one go. Castiel takes the glass back and Dean sags into his pillow, raising his hands to run them over his face. 

“Is there anything you would like us to do, Your Highness?” 

Dean shakes his head, trying to sort through his thoughts. “No, no. Just – I need to speak to Castiel alone.”

“Alone? Are you sure that is a--”

“I said I want to speak with him alone,” he says, voice raspy but it’s enough to have that guard bowing and leaving the room. Dean runs his fingers over the cut on his lip. 

“How is your head?” Dean closes his eyes for a second.

“Yeah, it’s…fine. What are you doing in here? With that guard?” Castiel narrows his eyes. 

“You don’t remember?” 

“Remember?” 

“You asked me not to leave.” Dean tries to remember the men who took him and when Castiel came. But he doesn’t remember asking that of him. Castiel must pick up on it as he continues, “It was after I’d taken you back to the inn.” A beat. “I think you were scared.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Dean retorts, but immediately knows it’s not true. He was terrified from the very moment someone tackled him to the ground and pulled a bag over his head. He’d yelled for Castiel – screamed for him but he never came. Until he did. 

“Where were you?” Dean asks, and he can’t help the anger that seeps into his tone. Castiel flicks his eyes to the ground, swallowing around a lump in his throat.

“I thought I saw someone I used to know.” Dean doesn’t know what to say. He can’t tell if Castiel is lying or not.

“I thought…” Dean stops, an ache building in his chest and he doesn’t know why. “I thought you had left.” Castiel continues to stare at the floor. “You could’ve,” he says, and it comes out smaller than he intended. 

Castiel finally raises his eyes and there is nothing there to betray any emotions. “Where would I have gone?”

Dean tears his eyes away, picking at the blanket laid over him. He remembers. Castiel has no family. They’re all dead. But still…he knows Castiel hates the castle. Maybe even still hates him. He could’ve gone anywhere. Started a new life. But…

“You saved me.” Something flashes in Castiel’s eyes at that.

“Of course. It is my duty to protect you.”

Dean swallows, nodding. This is going nowhere. And he doesn’t know why it disappoints him so much. But he wants to hear… _Hear what_ , he thinks. What does he want Castiel to say? That he came back for him, not because it is his duty, but because perhaps he thinks Dean’s worth it? He’s desperate to hear it. It’s almost pathetic.

“Well, thank you for…staying. I suppose I didn’t trust the guards to keep me safe. I mean, you were able to wander off without them noticing. That’s not exactly…” Dean pauses. 

His stomach sinks. Any well-trained guard would never have let Castiel out of their sight. Unless they’re not well-trained guards. Meeting Castiel’s eyes, he knows he’s having the same thoughts.

Did his father really send him the finest guards to keep him safe? Maybe he didn’t care enough to send his finest. Maybe he simply didn’t think anything could possibly happen.

He’s too tired to be angry. He picks at a loose thread on the blanket.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking,” Castiel says, dragging a chair across to sit beside the bed and dropping down on it, “what happened?”

Dean sighs. “I don’t know. One moment we we’re walking down the street and the next I was on the ground with a bag over my head and I was being dragged off somewhere.” He recalls kicking and yelling but to no avail. He feels ashamed. Like all his training was for nothing. One knock to the head and he could barely wrap his mind around doing anything but scream for Castiel. “They said they were from Lithos.”

Castiel’s eyes widen slightly but he doesn’t say anything. “They said that we royals hadn’t done anything to help them. That we’d let their town fall to pieces and expected them to clean it all up.” He knows it’s a lie. He knows his father has sent a generous amount of coin to the town for them to build themselves up again. “They were going to bargain with the king for gold and whenever he refused they would…cut off a piece of me and send it to him to show how serious they were.” He definitely remembers when he heard that. If he wasn’t already afraid, that made him petrified because he knows that his father would have never wielded. They would have cut off pieces and pieces until there was nothing left.

But across from him, Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t think they were actually going to hurt you. I think they knew that if they hurt you, the king would retaliate with a greater force than they could’ve handled. They were probably going to keep you captive until he gave up the gold.” 

Dean doesn’t want to think about that either. All he can imagine is being held captive in some small dungeon, chained up for the rest of his life. 

“But it’s alright now. They’re gone. You just need to get some more rest.” Castiel stands and walks towards the door when something flashes across Dean’s mind. 

A glimpse through the bottom of the bag over his head of Castiel. Knee in the back of one of the men. 

“Are they dead? The men who took me?” But he already knows the answer. Castiel turns to look at him. Hesitant.

“No. They got away.”

Dean stares at him, unblinking. “How did they get away?” 

“They all ran when they saw that I could defeat them. I didn’t go after them because there were too many to follow and you were bleeding out. You needed to be brought here right away.” Dean blinks, nodding. 

“Get some rest, Dean. I will check on you later,” Castiel says, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him.

That image flashes through his mind again. He remembers the sound of the men going down. Patches here and there. But it’s not enough.  

Something sits heavily in the pit of his stomach. It doesn’t make sense. 

So, he closes his eyes and tries to sew the patches back together. 

 

______________________________________

 

The next morning, Dean is already up by the time Castiel enters the prince’s room. He’s writing something down at the desk in the corner, aware of Castiel’s presence but not sparing him a look.

“You are feeling better today, I see,” Castiel comments, looking around the room at the already made bed. He didn’t realise they were supposed to let maids in.

“I want to talk to the mayor,” Dean says, finally glancing in his direction. 

“Of course. You still have to discuss what you were sent here--”

“No, I want to talk to him about the kidnapping.” Castiel blinks.

“The kidnapping?”

“Yes.” Dean continues to write, hunched over at his desk.

“Why would you talk to him about that?” Dean’s hand stops and he glances back up to Castiel. 

“The men who tried to kidnap me were from Lithos. This is the mayor’s responsibility. We will find those men and have them punished. And we certainly won’t be providing their town with any more _help._ ” Castiel stares, incredulous.

“You can’t possibly blame the mayor for this – the _town_ for this?”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “What? You don’t think it’s related at all that the day I’m supposed to be meeting the mayor of Lithos, men from that exact town, capture me and threaten to bargain my life for more gold?” 

“There is no evidence at all that this--”

“That’s not evidence enough?” Dean yells, throwing his hands out wide. “How did they know I was going to be here at that exact time--”

“Lithos is a small town, everybody would’ve known if their mayor was meeting with the crown prince,” Castiel says, trying to keep his voice calm. “And a royal carriage isn’t hard to spot in a town like this. Punishing the town and the mayor--” He cuts himself off at ‘and those men’. It was terrible what they did. But the king hasn’t been kind to Lithos. He’s run them into the ground on purpose. Castiel clenches his jaw. “You’re being selfish.”

Dean huffs a rough laugh, standing from the table. “Oh, I’m being selfish. They kidnapped me not you, Cas.”

Castiel shakes his head. “This is absurd. I think you need to rest some more. Clear your head because right now--” Dean’s eyes clench shut and he leans a hand on the desk. “Dean?” Castiel takes a step forward, hand reaching out to grab his shoulder but Dean pushes his hand away, eyes wide. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

“You…” he says, eyes suddenly hard. “You let them go.” Castiel’s words die on his tongue. “I remember.” Dean shakes his head, disbelief clear on his face. “You had them. And then you let them go. Before the prince wakes, you said.” Dean’s fists clench at his sides. 

Castiel lifts his chin. “They didn’t deserve to be punished or whatever it is your father would have done to them.” Dean’s lower lip trembles and something akin to vulnerability flashes in his eyes. 

“They didn’t deserve it? Did I deserve it? Did I deserve to be kidnapped and held at ransom? Be kept captive all my life?” Dean asks, voice raised.

“But I saved you, didn’t I?” Castiel retorts but the rage in Dean’s eyes is only growing. 

“You don’t get to decide whether or not they get punished.” _Just like I didn’t get to decide whether my people lived or died._ “You are no more than my _servant_ ,” Dean spits, and Castiel steps back as if he’s been struck. 

He feels it in his veins. His own rage, simmering just underneath. It shouldn’t hurt this much – it _shouldn’t_ – but it does. “And you are nothing but a sad, rejected prince. I am more than you will _ever_ be.” 

Dean lunges forward but Castiel easily ducks away, dodging again when Dean tries to swing a fist at him. He stumbles into the wall, clutching at his side. “Guards!” he shouts. “Guards!”

The door bursts open as all eight guards rush into the small room. Dean points at Castiel. “Hold him.” Castiel feels it in his chest – a searing pain. He wants to leave. He wants to run away and leave all of this behind. 

But he stays standing where he is as two guards grab either of his arms, pushing him roughly to his knees. Dean stands above him and Castiel can feel himself trembling.

_Not him. Not him too._

_But you did this,_ another voice says. _It’s you, not him._

He keeps his voice steady as he finally spits right where it hurts, “Can’t do anything for yourself, can you?”

Dean’s eyes flash with pain before they’re glazed back over with fury. His fist collides hard with Castiel’s face again and again until he feels a cut open up and the smallest drop of blood trickle out. 

He doesn’t make a sound. But it hurts. 

He wants to shove the guards off, he wants to throw Dean to the ground and pummel him over and over until he’s black and blue. 

But when he imagines it, all he can think of is the wrong light brown hair. The wrong coloured eyes. The wrong smile. And hazel wings spreading from his back.

He closes his eyes. 

He tries to think of his mother’s touch, so gentle and warm. But it’s so hard to remember. All he can think of is Dean’s hands on his wrists as he’d pinned Castiel to the ground, smiling brightly above him. 

He wants to cry. Because this is all he has left. This is all his body can remember. 

“That’s enough,” Dean says, as his fists finally cease and there’s the smallest hint of his voice shaking. Castiel opens his eyes but keeps them trained on the floor. “Take him to his room and keep him there until I get back. And pack everything. I want to leave as soon as possible.”

Heavy footsteps sound and Castiel knows Dean’s gone. 

They drag him to his small room, dark and cramped, and throw him inside. He quickly wipes the small amount of blood from his face, using the small bucket of water in the corner to make sure it’s all gone. He sinks down onto his mattress, pulling his knees to his chest. 

He sits, staring at the bare wooden walls. He prays to Leuric. He prays until his voice is hoarse. For something. For anything. He doesn’t even know what. 

He thinks maybe that’s the saddest part. 

 

______________________________________

 

The guards come for him a few hours or so later. It’s hard for Castiel to tell in the small room. The luggage is packed and already in the carriages. They’re ready to leave. There’s no sign of Dean when he steps outside the inn. He must already be in one of them.

The guards lead him up to one and practically shove him inside. He can’t help but show his surprise when he sees Dean in there, eyes down and hand covering the bruised knuckles of his other as if he can’t even bear to look at it. Castiel sits down next to the window on the opposite seat as the guards close the door. 

Neither of them looks at each other, nor do they say anything. The carriage pulls away with the call of one of the guards and Castiel watches the town pass by. 

It’s only after they’re out of Narla when Dean finally speaks.

“I didn’t say anything to the mayor about the kidnapping. I gave him the money that I was told to and off he went. Are you happy?” Dean says, but his voice holds no contempt. 

Castiel doesn’t respond. He’s not sure what Dean expects him to say. And neither of them speak for the rest of the trip to Kalapell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: So sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. Unfortunately, while my busy month is shortly coming to an end, times have been kind of rough lately so you'll all have to just bear with me as to when chapters will be posted. The schedule is still the same - I'll continue to try and post my chapters every Saturday ~8/9pm AEST time - but if that does change I promise I will update this section at the end of the most previous chapter (I'll update here if chapter 8's posting time changes and I'll update the chapter 8 section if posting for chapter 9 changes and so on) to inform you otherwise. Again, so sorry about this. I tried to plan this so it wouldn't happen but nothing ever seems to go as I wish :((( Thank you all for your patience and kind words <3
> 
> UPDATE: Unfortunately, Chapter 8 will not be up tonight (Saturday) :( I'm hoping to get it up tomorrow but it could possibly be up on Monday as well. I'll keep updating down here to let you all know :)
> 
> UPDATE: Close to posting but just not quite! Cross my fingers for Monday night! 
> 
> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://angvlicmish.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: attempted rape/noncon

Emery slowly drops the grate back down and slumps against the back of the stables with a sigh. He wipes his dirty hands on his trousers before leaning his head back. 

The breeze caresses his face, enough to have him closing his eyes as that sinking feeling of loneliness takes root in his gut. He never thought out of all places, it would be the royal castle of Anathee that he’d be spending his twentieth birthday. As a child, he would have always imagined it as a small celebration at home, surrounded by his mother and father – and any of his closest friends. That is if he had any. He’s spent too long, bouncing from place to place, training for years to get inside this castle. There were few men he could bear along the way let alone men he could call friends. 

He huffs. And of all places, it’s here that he seems to find himself in the best company – meaning a few more men he can bear. A few he might call friends. Perhaps in another life.

The thought only makes him feel more isolated. 

But the breeze whistles around him, the sky clear and the sun out and it’s enough for him to stop for a second – to breathe a sigh of relief – to let his guard down for the precious few seconds he has. 

It’s not, however, enough for him to rid himself of the loneliness. It clings to his bones and no matter how hard he tries, it won’t seep away. Not entirely. Sometimes he wishes he hadn’t chosen this. His parents had even been hesitant – more than hesitant – to let him take this on. He was naïve as a boy and didn’t fear for his own safety like they did. He thought he could do it all. And here he is, doing it – not knowing what will happen next – only hoping that everything will work out in the end. That all will be right in the world for people like him. 

And if it does all work out, only then can he finally let his guard down completely – only then will that loneliness fade and he can finally be his complete self. Be free.

He sighs heavily, his lips forming around the words. He might as well since no one else will do it. “May--”

He hears someone trudging around the back of the stables and is about to stand when they step around the corner. He slumps once more, relief filling his chest and a small smile dusting his lips. 

Catharlo raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing behind here?”

Emery sighs. “Just needed a little time away from everyone.” Catharlo jerks back, frowning.

“Oh, I can leave if--”

“No, please. Stay,” Emery says quickly, gesturing to the patch of grass beside him.

Catharlo nods, walking towards him. “You will have to find a better hiding spot. How do you know no one will just come around--” Catharlo jerks back once more, a hand fanning over his nose at the stench as Emery laughs. 

“That’s why.” 

“Trust me, there are many places to hide that aren’t directly in front of a sewer grate,” Catharlo responds, finally mustering up the courage to come closer and sit down beside him.

“Then you will have to show me,” Emery says, smiling as Catharlo huffs a shy laugh.

“If you would like,” he says, sounding uncertain. 

Emery’s brows pinch together, eyes teasing. “Why wouldn’t I like that?” Catharlo’s eyes meet his own, lips slightly parted as he flicks his gaze down to where their knees nearly touch. He shuffles slightly, swallowing down a lump in his throat before speaking.

“Have Nicolaus and Salicar been bothering you again?” Emery flicks his eyes away, his smile lingering for a moment as Catharlo evades his question. 

He shrugs. “Not much lately.” And luckily for him, it’s true. They’ve seemingly been occupied with other things and when he has seen them, they’ve both been by themselves – never together. 

“Then…” Catharlo trails off, eyes open. 

“Standing out can be tiring sometimes,” Emery responds softly and Catharlo nods slowly as if mulling something over. 

“If…” he pauses, not meeting Emery’s eyes as he chews on his lip almost nervously. “If I was able to get us on a rotation at one of the far towers, would that help…” Catharlo glances towards him hesitantly as Emery’s chest swells with warmth. It continues to awe him how one of the biggest and strongest men in the castle is somehow one of the kindest. Perhaps _the_ kindest. 

“You would do that for me?” Catharlo deflates slightly.

“Well, I’m sure if you asked the captain you could get it arranged yourself but…yes, I would.”

Emery’s gaze softens. “I would like that.” Catharlo nods and he can see the smallest hint of redness creeping up the man’s neck.

“Okay, then. I’ll ask him as soon as I can.” His eyes are sincere and while Emery’s lips only curve slightly, his eyes shine. 

“It’s my birthday today,” he blurts before he can stop himself. Catharlo’s smiles softly, one that seems to be reserved only for him. 

“May the gods wish you well.” 

His smile falters for a moment, as his mind pulls his thoughts in each and every direction. If everything works out in the end – if all is right in the world, Emery hopes Catharlo will be there with him. 

He hopes. It’s all he can do.

 

______________________________________

 

They spent another two nights in Kalapell, Dean resting there as even riding in the carriage made him exhausted. Now Castiel lies awake in the same storage room in Anathee, waiting for the sun to peek over the horizon. He’s already dressed and his few belongings are packed. He’s barely slept the past few nights. Too much has been on his mind. Mostly Dean though. And the look in his eyes. The rage he felt. 

He’s almost too wrapped up in his own thoughts to hear the knocking on the door to his room. “Castiel?” a guard says, tripping over his name inelegantly. Unlike Dean. “Prince Dean has asked to speak with you.”

Castiel sighs, standing from his mattress. He opens the door just as the guard is about to knock again. “You’re ready?” the guard says, taking in Castiel’s uniform. 

“What is it the prince needs to see me about?” 

“He didn’t say. Only that he wanted to speak with you now.” Castiel apprehensively follows the guard to Dean’s rooms – only a few doors down from his own. The prince, unlike Castiel, is half dressed, his trousers and boots pulled on but only his undershirt hanging off his shoulders. He sits at his desk, bandages out in front of him. The guard bows beside him and closes the door, leaving the two of them alone.

“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Dean says quietly, lifting his shirt to start unwinding the bandage from around his stomach. 

“No,” Castiel says. “You didn’t.” 

 

______________________________________

 

When he finally gathers the courage to look up, he sees the bags under Castiel’s eyes and the cut and bruise that mark his face. He doesn’t want to be reminded of it. He already hates himself enough for it. 

But that’s not _enough_. 

He just wants to tell him he didn’t mean to. It just came over him. He just wanted someone to care. He’d been captured and almost enslaved. And yet that’s not enough to punish the people who did that to him? Is his life worth anything? Does anyone care?

And yet all he could think was he had only wanted _Castiel_ to care. Knowing his father had sent him poor guards whether to create some false sense of security to make him feel cared or just doing it because he would rather the guards keep Castiel away from him more than he would rather Dean be safe – or--

He doesn’t even want to think about the other option. But the fact is that even that didn’t hurt as much as when Castiel had dismissed it all as if it wasn’t important – when he had just let them go like his capture had meant nothing. No more than his duty. 

But he saw the way Castiel looked when Dean hit him. He didn’t even try to fight back. And now all he can think of are Castiel’s scars. As if he wasn’t thinking about them enough before. He wonders how many times Castiel’s been hit like that. How many times he’s been beaten.

“Did you want some help?” Dean blinks, taking a moment to understand. He looks down at the dirty bandage he’s unwinding. 

“Oh. No, it’s fine. I can--” Castiel walks over, pulling a small stool out from under the desk and settling down on it. He takes the bandage from Dean’s hands without a word and continues to unwind it around Dean’s stomach. Dean clutches at his lifted shirt, watching the way Castiel’s hands work. “I said I can--”

“This is loose and uneven. It will be much better for someone else to do it.” Dean opens his mouth to retort but finds he has nothing to say. He won’t let any of the other guards do it so he has been attempting to do it himself.

Castiel unwinds it quickly, placing it on the ground when he’s finished and turning to the table in front of him. He grabs the small cloth first and dips it in the bowl of water Dean had filled. Dean lifts his shirt once more as Castiel starts to dab at the wound, careful not to pull at any of the neat stitches. He still doesn’t know who to thank for them. Perhaps one of the guards was useful after all.

Castiel’s eyes are focused, lips pursed. The wound on his face glares at Dean. He has the urge to reach out and touch him. To brush his fingers along Castiel’s jaw, just under the bruise. 

A heavy ache sits in his chest. He only wants to show Castiel that he’s not the person he was the other night. He wants Castiel to trust him. He wants…

He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know why he cares so much about one man.

Castiel grabs the ointment and dips his fingers inside. He pauses just before Dean’s stomach, eyes flicking up to meet Dean’s. He can see something flash behind those blue eyes and Dean almost tells him it’s okay – that he’ll do it – but then Castiel’s cold fingers are brushing against the wound, against his bare skin and for some reason, he’s glad he didn’t say anything.

His hands are gentle and quick, covering the wound in ointment without catching any of the stitches and Dean feels that ache again when Castiel’s touch disappears. Finally, he starts to slowly wrap the bandage around him, leaning forward until his face is close enough that they’re nearly touching. 

Dean’s breath hitches but luckily Castiel doesn’t notice. From this close, he can see the short, dark stubble forming on his jaw, the cracks in his lips. There’s a small scar on his forehead in the shape of a crescent and another near his left ear. The blue in his eyes gleam even in the dark.

Dean doesn’t even know that Castiel’s secured the bandage until he’s sitting back up straight in his stool. 

He leans back on his own chair, swallowing – his mouth suddenly dry. “That should be it,” Castiel says. “I should leave to get ready for--”

“What about your face?” Dean asks, unable to stop himself. Castiel pauses, staring. 

“What about it?”

“You should be cleaning it – the wound, I mean.” Castiel glances away.

“I’m fine.”

“Let me help you.”

“I said--”

“Well, I insist.” The uneasiness is written all over Castiel’s face but he doesn’t go to move away. Dean grabs another smaller cloth from the table and wets it before bringing it up to his face. Castiel leans backwards slightly before seemingly catching himself. His hands are balled into fists on his knees. Dean leans close and slowly, so slowly, raises his empty hand to hold Castiel’s jaw. He keeps his touch light, because if he presses any harder he knows Castiel will pull away.

Castiel doesn’t take his eyes away from Dean’s and he can feel the clench of the man’s jaw, the tenseness of his face. He finally moves the cloth forward and starts to dab at the cut on his cheek.

He’s as gentle as he’s ever been as he holds Castiel’s face between his fingers, flicking his eyes up to his occasionally – Castiel’s eyes that are always watching, always noticing – just to make sure he’s not hurting him. 

It feels like the moment has spread on forever and suddenly Dean can hear the sound of heavy breathing and feel the warmth of it on his own cheek.  

Castiel jerks back all of a sudden, hitting Dean’s hands away with his own. “That’s enough,” he says, voice strained. Dean notices the way his chest is rising and falling quickly and when he goes to stand, he nearly trips over the stool he was sitting on before righting himself.

He swallows, eyes looking anywhere but Dean’s own. “I should pack my own belongings and get ready to leave. I’m sure your breakfast will be here soon.”

He leaves swiftly and Dean is left alone, his hands still warm from cradling his jaw. He releases a shuddering breath. What is happening to him? He didn’t even get a chance to apologise. He hopes his touch said enough. Deep down though he knows it’s not enough. He stands from the chair and finishes dressing, trying to think about what he might have to face back at the castle. 

But he keeps coming back to him. To Castiel. And there’s that question there again, swirling around in his mind, not letting up until it gets an answer. 

_Why do you care so much?_

The only problem is that Dean doesn’t have an answer. 

 

______________________________________

 

Dread curls in his stomach the whole way back to the castle. That moment won’t stop replaying in his head. Dean’s fingers caressing his face in the dark of his room, breath warm on his lips. He could barely stand it. The urges to lean forward or pull away waged war inside him. Only one got the better of him in the end. He supposes it’s for the best.

He’s not sure what’s going to happen when they get to castle – or when the king finds out what’s happened. He can only hope the men have escaped. He can’t hope much for the mayor or Lithos itself. He wonders what Dean will do. What he’ll say. Did he only spare the mayor himself because he knew the king would punish him as soon as he found out or did he spare him because Castiel actually changed his mind?

Dean sits across from him, staring out the window in silence. But his eyes are glazed over and the fingers of one hand tap away restlessly at his knee. He meets Castiel’s eyes for a short moment as they pull to a stop just outside the castle before hopping out. 

Servants are waiting for them, ready to take their luggage back to their chambers as two other guards usher Dean and Castiel towards the meeting room. The generals are waiting.

Dean turns to him just as they are about to head in. “You should wait out here,” he says, eyes fixing on Castiel’s bruised cheek. Castiel hesitates a moment before nodding and stepping aside. He feels it now. The disappointment. Dean doesn’t want Castiel in the meeting because he’s going to tell them what happened. The town will be punished. The mayor will be punished. He supposes it doesn’t matter anyway. The king would have found out one way or another. 

But the disappointment still sits in his gut. Dean doesn’t look at him when he exits the meeting – only every other general and guard that walks out, eyes wide as they see his face.

The young prince awaits in the dining hall of their joined chambers. He smiles and runs over to greet them as they enter, hugging Dean around the waist. The eldest prince hugs back hesitantly, cracking a small smile.

When Sam turns to him, he frowns. “Cas. Your face. What happened?” he asks, eyebrows bunched together in concern. 

Castiel uses all of his power to conjure up the faintest of smiles. “I was protecting your brother,” he says softly. He feels Dean’s eyes baring into the back of his head as he turns and enters his own chambers, closing the door softly behind him. 

 

______________________________________

 

After Sam and Mervyn leave, Dean can’t even find it in himself to go to his room. He’s exhausted and yet he doesn’t want to sleep. Not yet. So, instead, he stares at Castiel’s closed door and prays that maybe Castiel will walk out any second and this will all be fixed. 

It was going so well. At least, it was getting there. And now… 

It was a moment of weakness. He wasn’t thinking straight and now he has to settle with the guilt clouding his thoughts. His fist still hurts from where he hit Castiel. He hates it. And he’ll do anything to get him to trust him again. 

He clenches his hands in his lap and gets up. Slowly he makes his way to Castiel’s door and with uncertainty, knocks lightly. Clearing his throat, he speaks, “Cas? You awake in there?” It’s only just past mid-afternoon but he knows Castiel – like him – is exhausted. 

But suddenly the door is opening and Castiel stands there, face void of any emotion. 

Dean fumbles for anything to say, not really knowing _what_ to say. “Dinner should be here soon.” Castiel sighs heavily but still doesn’t respond. Dean looks down at his feet. This is it. Just apologise. Just-- “Cas, I--”

He’s interrupted by a heavy knock at the door. Dean throws a glance at Castiel as he walks towards it but the other man is staring straight ahead of him. Dean’s stomach drops. Throwing open the door reveals his father waiting outside, surrounded by guards. And he doesn’t look impressed. 

They push inside as Dean steps backwards, relieved to know Castiel is standing beside him. They both bow as his father stops in front of him and for the first time in Dean’s life he wishes he could stay that way forever – he doesn’t want to meet his father’s eyes.

“Why is it,” his father starts, without even a greeting, “that I have to find out from the guards that you were kidnapped in Narla?” Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Castiel’s eyes flick towards him and Dean knows they’re surprised. He saw the look on Castiel’s face when he asked him to wait outside. He knows what Castiel thought of him but he only asked that of him because he was ashamed of his actions that are quite visible on his skin. 

Dean lifts his chin. “Because Castiel and I handled it.” 

His father laughs, breathy and low. “Handled it. Is that right? Then you don’t have a stab wound hiding under your clothes?” Dean’s palms are sweaty at his sides. The king turns his eyes on Castiel then and Dean can’t help but grasp at the smallest amount of relief it provides.

“This is your fault,” he says, but Castiel doesn’t flinch or cower. He stands eye to eye and holds the king’s gaze. “Your one duty is to keep your crown prince safe. And all I hear is that you weren’t even there to protect him. To stop him from ever being kidnapped in the first place.”

“Father, I’ve already punished him for that.”

“Punished him? This?” His father points at Castiel’s face. “You can’t even be responsible for his punishment. I thought that was what you wanted. More responsibility. More freedom to make your own decisions.” Dean swallows but keeps his mouth shut. “Well, I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you more decisions. You have a choice between your guard spending three nights in the dungeons for not doing his duty or we’ll take all that money we just so generously gave to the mayor and punish him instead.”

It barely even crosses his mind. “The mayor.”

“No.” Castiel’s voice cuts across the room. The king’s eyes are fierce when they turn on Castiel and he takes a step forward into his personal space.

“How dare you speak out of line. This decision is for your prince, not you.” Castiel opens his mouth again and panic spikes in Dean’s chest.

“Please, father. Just let me have a word with him alone.” Seconds pass with no response, only the king and Castiel standing eye to eye as Dean watches on anxiously, waiting for something – anything. Finally, however, the king relents, stepping back and waving a dismissive hand in his direction. 

Dean closes the door behind them as they enter Castiel’s chambers. “What are you doing?” he hisses, finally letting his guard down.

“What are you doing?” Castiel responds, perfectly calm.

“I’m saving you, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Saving me? Or condemning innocent people?” 

“Innocent?” Dean eyes widen in disbelief. “Those people have been bleeding us dry of coin for years. The amount of times we’ve tried to help them and it’s lead to nothing--”

“Whatever your father or any of those generals have told you about Lithos are lies. I’ve been to the town myself. This castle – your father – gives them almost nothing and expects them to come back from years of debt. Years of suffering.” Dean scoffs.

“Why would they lie about that? Why wouldn’t we help them?”

“Why do you think?” Dean stares at him, his mind ticking. And then it hits him. The angels. Lithos used to trade heavily with those filthy animals and even rebelled after they had wiped them out. Even after they heard what the animals were going to do. What they had done. “Choose me, Dean. Those people don’t deserve this.”

Dean clenches his jaw. “This is _my_ decision.”

Castiel’s hands ball into fists at his sides, frustration flashing over his features. “Since when do you care about me anyway?”

Dean blinks, taken aback. Why would he say that? Even after this morning. He squeezes his eyes shut, anger filling his veins. “Fine,” he spits. “Go rot.” He turns on his heels and exits the room. His father doesn’t look happy at the change of decision. He thought he would be – Castiel in the dungeons seems like something he wants. Maybe he just wanted Dean to make his own decision. And he has failed at that. Just like everything else. 

Castiel doesn’t spare him a glance as he’s patted down for weapons, the guards compiling them on the table along with his two silver bands before he’s dragged away. 

His father spares him only a disappointed look and Dean doesn’t have the courage to ask about the guards in Lithos – in what the point was of sending more if they were incompetent. Perhaps if Castiel was by his side he would have. But he’s not.

And suddenly he is alone. 

Once again.

 

______________________________________

 

He forgot how foul it smelt. He’s glad he did. He doesn’t want to ever remember what blood, piss and shit smell like. It’s almost enough to make him wretch. The guards don’t bother with putting a bag over his head. He already knows where he is. Nor do they bother with shackling his hands or feet. After all, he chose this. 

The guards shove him along past the cells, prisoners shouting and reaching through the bars. He’s stopped in front of the cell right beside the one he was kept in last time. The cell with those men. He can’t make out anyone in the dark – only candles on the dungeon walls giving them any source of light – but Castiel feels that fear creep, unwanted, into his mind.

One guard pushes him in and Castiel nearly walks over to find an empty space in the corner away from the other men when the guard pushes him again. “Turn around,” he says smugly. Castiel does, fixing on the faces of the guards waiting outside the cell. They’re smiling.

The shackle shuts tight around his neck. Castiel sweeps his eyes over the other prisoners in the dark. None of them have any shackles around their necks. “Give me your hands.” Castiel keeps his hands by his side. What’s happened? He doesn’t recognise any of the guards. There’s no Nicolaus or Salicar. Why are they doing this? All he knows is he can’t do anything now. He can’t call for Dean’s help. “I said--” Something sharp pokes his abdomen. “--give me your hands.”

Castiel lifts his hands, trying to calm the rate of his heart. Free shackles – thankfully not chained to the wall – latch onto his hands. The guard winks at him before leaving the cell.

The sound of the lock clicking shut is accompanied by cruel laughter. “Sleep well,” one says, as they walk away, the light from their torches fading after them. Castiel steps back against the wall, next to wear the shackles on his neck is bolted in. He swallows, stomach clenching into knots. None of the prisoners move toward him nor say anything. Some even look as though they are asleep. 

Castiel sinks down onto the ground, landing half in a puddle of something but can’t find the courage to move again as if doing so will make the prisoners finally notice him. 

There are five other men in the cell and a small bucket in the other corner. 

He can handle this. Only three nights. 

He doesn’t close his eyes. He doesn’t dare.

 

______________________________________

 

He sits for hours – or at least what feels like hours – eyes open and body tense. Until finally, exhaustion takes over him and he mistakenly dozes off. 

He wakes with a jolt when water is thrown over him and opens his eyes to see one of the prisoners holding a bucket with a crooked smile on his face. It’s only when it starts to burn his eyes and the cut on his cheek that Castiel notices the smell and realises it’s not water.

“So good to see you again,” the prisoner holding the bucket says, and only now do Castiel’s eyes adjust in the dark and he sees the man’s face. Val. The man who tried to grab him through the cell bars the first time he was here. He jumps to his feet just as another prisoner swings his fist at him. Castiel dodges easily and tries to move into the open space of the cell when the sharp metal of his chain digs into his neck and pulls him stumbling backwards. Val throws the bucket – and with nowhere to go – Castiel raises his shackled hands to block it. It’s then that one prisoner tackles his legs out from under him and he hits the ground with a heavy thud, his head knocking against the stone floor.

He groans, his head swimming and feels the taste of blood on his tongue. He’s unable to even react as someone punches him square in the face and another kicks him in the stomach. Across the hall, in the other cells, prisoners watch on and cheer, screaming out slurs and orders. 

Another kick to the stomach has Castiel pulling his legs to his chest. He only needs to last until his head stops swimming and then he can show them what he can do. 

But suddenly, someone is grabbing his legs and pulling them out from where they’re tucked against his chest. He tries to pull them back but another set of hands grabs onto him and then there is the full body weight of a man on one of his ankles. Castiel grimaces, trying to sit up when he’s pushed down hard into the stone, another prisoner grabbing his hands and holding them tight above his head. And then there are hands reaches blindly for his trousers and pulling at them. Castiel’s breath hitches as his heart pounds in his chest. He kicks his free leg up against the prisoner but it’s not enough to knock them away. He pulls desperately at his trapped leg as he thrashes on the floor, the mans’ hands unable to grasp ahold of his pants. 

“Get him to stop! Hold him still!” Val yells, and Castiel’s whole body trembles in fear as he grits his teeth so hard that they grind together painfully. 

“I can’t hold him. He’s too fucking strong,” the prisoner restraining his hands yells back above the noise. 

“Then knock him out!” Castiel’s heart surges, panic bubbling in his throat and tears creeping up behind his eyelids. The prisoner holding his hands takes one hand off to grab at his hair tightly. He yanks his head up and off the ground and in that moment, Castiel pulls his shackled hands from his grip and blindly kicks as hard as he can – feeling the crack as he connects his boot with the prisoner sitting on his ankle’s skull. 

In the next moment, he’s ripping his head down and out of the man’s grasp and pulling his legs underneath Val and kicking him hard in the chest until he’s falling backwards and off of him. He rolls away from the still standing prisoner’s impending fist and jumps to his feet.

The prisoners cheering grows stronger and is nearly deafening in the small confining space. He sways for a second, balancing himself before wasting no time in rushing forward, ducking the prisoner’s second swing and connecting his own fist to his jaw. The man stumbles backwards against the stone wall and Castiel continues forward, fists flying until the man is bleeding profusely, eyes drooping closed as he slides down to the floor. 

A hand from behind yanks him back and he only just misses Val’s fist swinging past him. He quickly regains his balance and tackles the man to the floor, pinning him down with the chain from his shackles over Val’s neck. 

Val’s eyes widen in fear as he presses the chain down, crushing his throat. His hands try to grasp at Castiel’s face but he’s getting weaker by the moment as Castiel finds himself not stopping, pressing down harder as Val fights for life. 

And then he hears the ugly cheers and clanking of prisoners hitting their cell bars around him and it’s as if he’s been stunned. He lets the chain slack. Val’s eyes are closed now and Castiel leans forward in dread to check if he’s still breathing. 

The warm, foul breath is everything he remembered from the first time. He sits back in agonising relief, sweeping his eyes around the cell.

Two other prisoners sit huddled together in the far corner, eyes wide. Castiel takes a step towards them, his chain restricting him from going any further, but one of them still flinches. 

“We weren’t gonna try anything, I swear. It was just those three.” 

Castiel pants heavily, his head and body aching. He looks around the cell. There are another four chains secured to the wall. But Castiel can only reach one of them. He grabs for the prisoner who he kicked in the head, lying sprawled out on the floor and drags him back until he can pull the man up by his arms and take him to the first chain. 

He shackles it around the man’s neck before staring at the other two prisoners. “Do you know who I am?” Castiel says, and his voice sounds rough and gravelly, his mouth still filled with blood. They both shake their heads. “I’m the crown prince’s personal guard.” Both of them tense before exchanging a quiet look. They don’t know whether to believe it or not for why would the crown prince’s personal guard be in the dungeons? But Castiel only has to clench his fists and the two prisoners are jumping to their feet and rushing over to each grab the other two men lying on the floor. 

Castiel points to the man dragging Val. “Take him to the far one,” he says, his voice only now starting to shake. The man nods and drags him to the chain furthest away from Castiel. 

He watches them carefully, making sure they snap the chains correctly over the prisoner’s necks. When they’re finished they both turn to him, hesitant. Castiel nods and steps back over to his own little space before slowly, sinking down on the floor. 

He quickly wipes at the blood on his face with his sleeve, making sure that none remains before starting to wipe at the blood on his hands. He clenches his fists hard as they begin to tremble, nails digging into his skin. The piss thrown over him has mostly dried but reeks enough that he knows he won’t be able to get to sleep anytime soon. 

Not that the smell would have been the biggest problem.

He leans his head back against the wall and finally allows himself to close his eyes. The noise from the other prisoners has died down and now he can only seem to hear the throbbing of his own skull. 

He folds his hands over one another in his lap and forces them to stop shaking. _Think of something else. Think of something good._

It takes a while to come to him, his mind cruelly trying to relive those last few minutes again and again, but it does.

He thinks of Dean. He thinks of Dean’s hands. Soft and warm against his skin. Cradling his jaw as if he might break if he pressed any harder. He holds that moment in his head, lets it linger.

And when his lips finally quirk up into the smallest of smiles, he notices they’re trembling too.

 

______________________________________

 

Dean raps on the door forcefully and waits. Dimarus opens it and at the sight of him, sighs heavily. 

Dean frowns entering after him and closing the door.

“Not happy to see me?” he asks, a grin on his face but he can feel his chest starting to ache.

“I’m always happy to see you, Dean,” Dimarus responds, slumping down in his chair and for a second, the ache disappears, “But I heard about what happened.”

A small, “Oh,” falls from his lips as Dean takes the seat opposite his desk. “And?”

“And I’m worried about you, that’s what.” 

“I’m fine, Dimarus, really.” 

Dimarus raises his eyebrows. “Oh, really? So, you didn’t get stabbed in the fucking gut?”

Dean’s laugh slips out on a silent exhale. “You sound just like my father.” Hurt flashes across Dimarus’ eyes.

“Don’t say that.” Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Look, I might have got stabbed and might have potentially been held captive for, you know, ever, but I’m back now, so, what’s the worry for?” Dean says, flippantly but the relief is palpable. He knows his father didn’t actually care that he got stabbed or might have been taken – he most likely would have only used it to his advantage anyway – only that he could flaunt another one of Dean’s failures in his face and punish Castiel. So, to hear that someone does care – who he knows cares – it’s a nice feeling. One he doesn’t get to experience often.

“What’s the worry for? Did you hear what just came out of your mouth?

“Yes, but I’m fine now, aren’t I?”

Dimarus shoots him a sympathetic look. “Are you? Because when the guards had Castiel dragged by me, he had a bit of a bruise on his face. And I couldn’t help but notice the bruises on your knuckles just as you walked in.” Dean looks down at his knuckles, curling his other hand over it, suddenly self-conscious. “Those two things happen when you were kidnapped?” he asks, but Dean can hear it in his voice that he knows different.

“No,” Dean mutters softly. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s fixed.” The words feel heavy on his tongue though because he knows that’s not true. 

Dimarus nods, frowning. “Did you send him downstairs…on purpose?”

Dean whips his head back up. “No, of course not,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “It was his choice to go down there. How could you think that of me?”

Dimarus raises his hands as if he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “I only thought because of what he did to you.” He nods his head towards Dean’s wrist. It healed a little while ago, quicker than he’d expected actually. “And because you two don’t seem to have the best relationship.”

“No, I wouldn’t – he’s better now. We’re better now.”

“Then?”

“Then what?”

“Then how did you end up with busted knuckles?” 

Dean rubs his fingers over his eyes. “I… It doesn’t matter. As I said, it’s fixed.” Dimarus lets out a deep breath, surrendering for now.

“What did you come here to see me for?” Dean perks up at that. He almost forgot.

“I was wondering whether you know about Lithos or not.”

“What about it?”

Dean chews on his lip, trying to put all the right words together. “Is it true that we never gave them any help after the war? Because they were allies with the angels?”

Dimarus’ narrow his eyes. “Why are you asking me this?” Dean shrugs and he knows it’s not convincing but he wants to hear the truth. The captain stares at him for a few moments before relenting. “Yes, it’s true. We’ve hardly given them anything. I believe this is the most generous your father has even been.”

Dean’s eyes slip to the floor. He feels the disappointment sit in his stomach. Not disappointment at his father but at himself. “I should have known.”

“How could you? I knew of it only a year after becoming captain.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“I would help if I could, Dean, but there is nothing I can do. I am only the Captain of the Guard. I barely have any say in those meetings and none at all on the account of coin.”

Dean nods. “No, I…I understand. Thank you for telling me.” He stands from his chair and makes his way over to the door. “Actually,” he stops, “before I go, I have one other thing to ask.”

“Of course. What is it?” 

“Emery. What would he be up to around now?” Dimarus flicks his eyes to the ceiling, thinking for a few seconds.

“He’ll be working a shift at the northern tower with Catharlo. Why?”

“Would there be any chance that you could get him on shift to serve dinner in the dungeons tonight?” 

Dimarus eyes widen. “Why would you want that?”

“I need someone trustworthy to check up on Castiel.” He knows many of the guards in the castle despise Castiel and while Dean can’t have a guard let go or punished under his own ruling, something inside of him just itches to know if he’s okay.

“I don’t want Emery going down there. You’ll have to get someone else.” 

“Okay, well who do you trust the most?”

“Catharlo,” Dimarus answers immediately.

“Can you get him on the shift tonight, then?” Dimarus pauses, eyeing Dean with concern before nodding.

“Of course. Is there anything else?” 

“Have him report to me when he’s done.” He nods, pulling out some parchment paper to write it down. “Thank you, Dimarus.”

“My pleasure,” Dimarus mumbles, as Dean exits out into the hall. Four guards wait for him. Like the time when Castiel was whipped, he is not gone long enough to bother with a replacement guard and Dean has just stuck with the four guards he’d ordered to follow him when Castiel was still new.

It’s startling lonely without him. Even if it’s only been one night and one day. It’s strange, however. For he hadn’t even realised that for a little while, he wasn’t alone.

 

______________________________________

 

“Is that alright with you?” Dimarus asks.

“Of course, captain,” Catharlo responds. “And will I report to you afterwards?”

“You will report directly to the prince himself. He’ll most likely be in his chambers and if not, you can report back to me.” Dimarus smiles. “Good. Let Emery in now, would you?” Catharlo nods and exits the room. Emery waits in the hall, a smile in his eyes when he looks at Catharlo.

“Trouble?” he asks, a hint of mischief lingering there. Catharlo lips pull into a small smile of his own, without him even thinking about it. He shakes his head.

“No. My shift has changed. I’m now supposed to serve dinner to the prisoners tonight.” Emery’s eyebrows raise, amusement clear.

“So, you _are_ in trouble,” he says, bumping his shoulder lightly against Catharlo’s. Catharlo looks down to hide his blush. He doesn’t know how Emery hasn’t seen it yet. The clear infatuation that must be written all over his face. The constant gazing and smiling and blushing. It’s getting harder these days as they spend more time together. He shouldn’t have suggested that they take the tower rotations. It had been foolish of him.

But a small part of him doesn’t regret it. Emery is always different around him when they are alone. With other guards, he is just like anybody. Ready to do his duty and to be of service anywhere at anytime. But with him…he is lighter, more at ease. He always has that teasing glint in his eye but it’s easy to see there are layers underneath – to see when his eyes glaze over as he stares off into the distance. But then he’ll look at Catharlo again and that glint and blinding smile will be there. It’s hard not to reach out – to be closer.

“No, I…” Catharlo stops for a moment, wondering if he should tell. But then he remembers how close Dimarus and Emery are and gives in. Or maybe it’s those big, brown eyes pleading that makes him give in. “The crown prince wants me to check in on his personal guard, Castiel.” Emery’s eyes soften. The news spread quickly around the castle about what happened in Narla. About how the prince was kidnapped by men from Lithos but Castiel had saved him. 

And of course, how Dean had Castiel take punishment in the dungeons to spare the mayor of Lithos and his town. Many of the guards were overjoyed to hear it. Catharlo had been terribly relieved to find out that Emery did not feel the same. Despite what they heard, they felt sorry for the man. He had done his duty, hadn’t he?

“Well, good luck with that. You must be doing well for yourself if the crown prince is trusting you.” Catharlo smiles at the praise. “I’ll see you tomorrow, will I?”

Catharlo swallows around a lump in his throat. Emery’s eyes are bright and a small smile rests on his face. 

The two scars on his back itch. The place where his mother took to his skin in rage after she found out that he wasn’t like other boys. Like normal boys. He was so young at the time he can’t even remember. Only the ache in his father’s eyes when he reminded him since she wasn’t there to do it anymore. 

_You cannot let them know what you are._

He speaks before his mind can catch up. “Of course.”

Emery grins, patting him on the arm as he strolls into Dimarus’ office. “See you then.”

The door closes and Catharlo is left in the quiet hallway, his arm warm from Emery’s palm. 

 

______________________________________

 

Dean waits impatiently, his knee bouncing restlessly on the floor. He waits for almost an hour after his own dinner at the table before the man he so desperately wants to hear from comes in.

“Catharlo,” Dean says, standing. Catharlo bows at the waist.

“Your Highness.”

“What do you have for me?” Catharlo looks down at his feet, taking a small breath. Concern rises in Dean’s chest.

“He seems to be alright, however, he has been shackled to the wall by his neck and his wrists too. He’s in a cell with five other prisoners – three of which are also shackled to the wall by their necks and seemed to be unconscious, although the other guards just assumed they were asleep. There… It looked as though a fight had broken out. One of the prisoner’s faces was covered in blood and the other had a terrible bruise on his neck – although it was hard to see with such limited light. Castiel, himself had a gash on his forehead but was definitely conscious and looked to be okay.”

Dean nods, walking back and forth across the room. “What do you think happened? That they fought and the guards chained them all up?”

Catharlo bites his lower lip. “I asked a few guards. It seems as though they chained Castiel up when he was first thrown in the cell. And the ones on duty didn’t chain the other prisoners up but they said that some other guards could have.”

Dean steps forward. “But from the look of it, what do _you_ think?” Catharlo holds his gaze, sympathy in his own eyes. 

“It could be that a fight broke out between the five prisoners and after, Castiel and the other two prisoners chained them up.” Dean nods. It does seem most likely. But he can’t know for sure.

“Thank you, Catharlo. You’re a good man.” Catharlo smiles politely and nods. “Would you be able to do it again tomorrow night? He will only be staying in there for one more.”

“Of course, Your Highness, anything you need.” Dean smiles. 

“I will speak to Dimarus about fixing it up tomorrow, then. Again, thank you.”

Catharlo bows and finally leaves the room. He lets out a deep breath. At least he knows he’s okay. Sort of. He might have been in a fight but seemingly came out victorious, which is no surprise. 

But now he’ll be able to sleep without it on his conscious. He only has to go another night after this and then Dean will have him back.

After ordering the four guards to come and stand outside his chambers for the night, he dresses down and slips into his bed. 

He can still, however, feels the absence of Castiel in his own chambers. 

The loneliness is suffocating and when it comes to sleep Castiel is the only thing he can think about.

 

______________________________________

 

He never thought he’d crave the sight of dungeon slop being plopped down in his cell for breakfast. But he does now. Because it means that his three nights are over – that he will be out of here soon.

From seeing food come an hour or so after…after he was attacked, Castiel was able to figure out that it was already dinner on the first day, meaning since he’d stayed awake through the entire first night and most of the morning, he’d slept through the rest of the day.

Dinner also came with a familiar face – the guard he’s seen with Emery a few times now. The one with the shy smile and short clipped, brown beard. 

Soon after, slowly one by one, the three prisoners who had attacked him slowly woke. 

They didn’t speak after realising they were chained up and the one next to him even shuffled as far away as he could. They most likely thought that the guards had chained them up.

The next day went slowly until a few guards came down and entered their cell. Muttering between themselves, Castiel found out that someone had ordered them to put him in a separate cell as there were only supposed to be five prisoners to each one. He was moved to the empty cell beside the one he was just in and chained back up. The other three prisoners were even unchained as well. 

It was a relief. Until of course the guards started to kick him and spit on him. He didn’t even try to defend himself. There was no point. And he could handle this. This was easy. This didn’t make bile rise in his throat at the mere thought of it. 

He tries his hardest not to think about it. And yet, the harder he tries _not_ to think about it, the more he ends up reliving the moment. The thrashing of his body and the clawing at his trousers, at his thighs. The thought of what would have happened if he had waited a second longer to move, if he had been knocked out cold. The severe ache of his stiff body after those kicks from the guard were actually the best thing that happened to him down here for the pain took his mind away – the pain was a distraction.

No one else had said anything to him after that. The guard with the shy smile and short clipped, brown beard had come again last night but that’s all he really noticed. 

And now he sits here, hope welling up inside of him that Dean will come soon. That Dean will come and save _him_.

His stomach growls as he waits. He barely touched the slop, only drinking the dirty water in sips and trying a taste of the food before spitting it out and leaving it be. Finally, however, two guards come for him. They unshackle his hands and neck and lead him away. 

Castiel doesn’t look at the cell beside his own as he passes but out of the corner of his eye he sees one of them spit at his feet. 

_And I pray to you Leuric, that I never have to see this place again._

The guards aren’t gentle with him as they shove him up the few flights of stairs. Castiel’s whole body aches and he can barely walk without having to stop. Everywhere is stiff with bruises and cuts from the attack and the beating. His head swims and his vision blurs in front of him when he finally reaches the top. 

But there is Dean, in front of him suddenly, ordering something to the guards and the relief crashes into him like a wave against the rocks and he falls forward just in time for Dean to catch him by the arm.

“You okay to walk, Cas?” Dean says, voice soft and yet far too loud. Castiel nods, straightening up again and pausing for a moment to let his head clear. Dean must see though that he is struggling for he grabs Castiel’s wrist to pull over his own shoulder and rests the palm of his free hand against Castiel’s back.

“C’mon,” Dean says, beginning to walk forward. “Let’s get you to a nice warm bath. Would you like that?” Castiel can’t even shake his head in the affirmative let alone respond, concentrating too hard and putting one foot in front of the other as they enter into the hall of the castle – the soft, red carpet like a cushion for his stiff joints. 

Dean, understanding, doesn’t speak for the rest of the way. Castiel never looks up from the floor but he can feel the eyes of the many guards and servants they pass. They burn holes into his head and it’s as if they know what happened down there – as if they can smell his fear and shame. 

Once inside the dining hall of their rooms, the door closed behind him, Castiel pushes away from Dean to try and stand by himself and make his way to his own chambers. 

“Cas, hey, let me help you,” Dean says, voice still soft like before as he reaches forward to help him again. And as he does, his hand reaches around and falls just below his waist, fingers catching on the fabric of his trousers.

Castiel flinches and weakly pushes Dean away as he falls heavily to his knees on the wooden floor before the bile rises abruptly in his throat and finally spills out across it. 

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, concern clear in his voice. “Fuck, Cas. Come with me.”

Tears sting his eyes as the bile burns his raw throat and he clenches his hands on the floor to stop them from falling. Dean’s hands grab for him again but he pathetically bats them away. He dry heaves once more as he stares at the puddle of liquid beneath him before falling back roughly on his backside. 

“C’mon, Cas. Please just let me help.” He tries to bat Dean away again but the prince persists, wrapping an arm around Castiel’s back and one arm underneath his knees and before he knows it, he’s being lifted into Dean’s arms. 

He doesn’t resist it now, slumping into his arm’s as one of his hands clutches tight to Dean’s clothes. He closes his eyes and breathes and breathes and breathes – even focusing on the foul taste in his mouth – anything to will the tears away. 

“C’mon,” Dean says again. “You’ll be alright. I’ve got you now.” Castiel’s face crumples then, the tears almost falling but he holds on just long enough to keep them at bay. He can’t do this now. He can’t be weak. Not in front of Dean. He’s already done that too many times already.

His eyes finally open when Dean lowers him down to the floor and he finds himself in the prince’s ensuite bathroom – the copper tub much larger than the one in his own room and a clean set of clothes – his clothes – and a towel stacked on small stool that sits beside a basket of supplies. 

Dean’s hands are suddenly at the buttons of his jerkin and panic surges through him as he tries to crawl backwards away from Dean.

Hurt flashes across Dean’s eyes. Hurt and disappointment. “You have to get clean, Cas. And someone has to help you. You can’t do this in the state you’re in.” He pauses for a moment, frowning. “I can fetch Alissande if that’s what you want.”

He barely has to think to know immediately that he doesn’t want that. The image of Dean in front of him, his gentle hands caressing his jaw flashes across his mind. He doesn’t want Alissande now.

Castiel shakes his head. “No,” he croaks, his throat raw. “No, I don’t…” Castiel’s breaths are coming quickly now and he can’t make himself say it but Dean’s eyes brighten slightly and he understands. 

“It’s okay, Cas. I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, his hands slowly raised to his chest again and little by little he undoes the buttons until it falls away. Castiel helps shrug it off, hissing at the pain from his stomach. Dean quickly undoes his doublet too before going down to his boots and pulling them off. And then he’s back up in Castiel’s personal space again, eyes continually glancing up at him as his hands trail up to his undershirt. 

Castiel’s heart thuds in his chest, and his hands tremor slightly but he doesn’t try to stop him, only helping him pull it up and over until he’s laid bare before those bright, green eyes although he’s quick to turn his left arm inward to hide. Dean’s eyes are everywhere, jumping from scar to scar, mark to mark, and his mouth parts slightly in an exhaled, “Cas.” 

Castiel’s bottom lip quivers. “Don’t.” Dean’s eyes meet his and they’re unbearably sad. He can’t look at him. He can’t deal with this now. He can’t-- “Just – don’t.” Dean nods and reaches for his trousers. “No,” Castiel says, a little more forceful then he should have. “I’ll…”

Dean looks away, ears bright red. “Of course, I’m sorry.”

He reaches for the tub, placing his hands on the side and pushes himself up to see that the bath is already filled to the brim with water. With hot, clean water. 

He goes to step out of his pants but his legs aren’t steady and he has to reach for the tub again. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean reach out but at the last second, retract his hand. 

Instead he says, “You can lean on me if you want.” Castiel takes a moment before grabbing for Dean’s shoulder and with a steady hand, somehow pushes his pants down until he’s only in his undergarments. 

Dean leans forward, dipping a hand in the water. “Not too hot.” Castiel nods, swallowing. He flicks his eyes over to Dean anxiously but Dean’s already looking the other way. Thankful for the privacy, Castiel pushes his undergarments down until he is finally naked and slowly, with his hand still on Dean’s shoulder, steps into the tub. A shiver runs up his spine as the hot water hits his skin and as quickly as he can without falling over, sits down in the tub, submerging himself up to the neck.

Pulling his knees to his chest, he lets his eyes slip closed and focuses on the warmth all around him. He can feel the grit on his skin already floating away – the dirt, the dried blood, the piss. A scrape to the side has him opening his eyes to find Dean dragging the stool up to the tub and sitting down on it. He rolls his sleeves up his muscled arms, and picks through the basket on his lap. 

Castiel stares at his knees in front of him, clutching them tighter to his chest. “Why are you doing this?” he mutters weakly. 

Dean only pauses what he’s doing for a moment or so – but Castiel notices the way his shoulders tense. “As I said before, you won’t be able to clean yourself and your wounds properly in the state you’re in.” Castiel’s not even sure what he was hoping Dean would say when he asked. But his chest swells with disappointment.

“Right,” he mumbles. A minute passes in silence as Dean fiddles around with the supplies in the basket and Castiel sits motionless in the water, back to staring at his knees.

“And…” Dean says, letting out a deep breath. “I…care about you.” Castiel’s eyes widen, warmth filling him as he turns to look at the prince. Dean swallows when their eyes meet. “I can’t have you dying of some fucking disease from that filthy dungeon after all.” He shoots Castiel a smug smile that falls flat. Castiel frowns slightly, the warmth in his chest dissipating. 

Dean hands Castiel some soap from the basket without meeting his eyes. Castiel takes it, careful not to graze their fingers and hesitantly starts to lather it over his skin. It’s divine, the feeling of cleanliness – something that for a few years there, he wasn’t used to. But even now, after being in this castle for a little while, he knows he’s become unappreciative of all these luxuries – all of the little things that others may not blink twice at. What would Michael say if he was here? No – he knows what he would say.

Dean sits quietly beside him, observing. Having finished with cleaning the rest of his body, he finally leans forward with a hand out. “Here. Let me get your back,” he says, voice calm but eyes hesitant. 

Castiel stares at the hand held out in front of him, his only instinct to retract and curl in on himself. But he aches to let Dean do this – to let Dean touch him with those gentle hands once more. 

So, he tentatively places the soap in Dean’s hand and suddenly he is more vulnerable than he has been in a long time. Dean places a light hand on his back and Castiel leans forward, hunching over his knees. And with his sleeves rolled to his elbows Dean starts to scrub the soap down his back.

Castiel’s throat is tight, his eyes closed. His skin tingles where Dean’s fingers graze it. He can feel the way Dean’s eyes are noting every scar – feel the way the soap trails over each and every one of them with more and more care. Dean’s free hand, still pressed lightly to his upper back doesn’t move, although Castiel can tell it’s itching to – Dean’s itching to.

He eventually pulls away, placing the soap back in the basket. “I’ll step out for a moment. Let you have some privacy. And then I’ll help you with your wounds. Is that okay?”

He nods and Dean swiftly leaves the room. Castiel hears him exit his own chambers and he finally lets out a deep, shuddering breath. He submerges himself under the water, running his hands through his dirty hair to get any muck out. After surfacing, he sits in the tub, quietly waiting for Dean’s return. He eyes are beginning to slip shut as he hears the tell-tale sounds of Dean’s boots on the floor.

“You okay in here?” Castiel nods, still clutching at his knees tightly. Dean holds an extra stool in his hand, placing it down across the room. “I can patch you up now or you can stay in there a bit longer if you like.”

“No, I’m--” Castiel reaches for the side of the tub, attempting to pull himself up and Dean rushes over, hands out to help.

“Woah, woah, take it easy, alright? Let me…” Castiel uses Dean’s shoulder for support, pushing himself up and once again he can feel the prince trying hard not to touch him. He hands Castiel a fluffy, white towel, eyes averted and after Castiel lets go of him, takes his stool and basket and places it over the other side of the room with the other one, before taking a seat.

With Dean’s back to him, Castiel dries himself down, careful with his new cuts and bruises. Steadier on his feet now, he reaches for the clean clothes lying on the ground and pulls on his undergarments and trousers. 

At last he pulls on his clean undershirt but leaves everything else lying in a pile on the floor. Dean glances up at him as he sits down on the stool opposite him. They’re close – close enough that their knees nearly touch. 

Wordlessly, Dean grabs a cloth from his basket and dips it in a small bowl of water. He raises his hands to Castiel’s face, his eyes questioning and Castiel leans forward slightly. It’s the same as the morning in Anathee. Dean’s hands are warm and gentle on his face, fingers grazing his skin as he cleans both the wound on his cheek and the new gash on the side of his head that cuts into his hairline.

Castiel’s focuses hard on his breathing as he watches Dean’s eyes narrow in concentration, his face edging closer to him until he can see the all of the different flecks of green in his eyes.

Dean lightly coats his open wounds with a balm before picking up the cloth again. “Your hands,” Dean says, gesturing towards where they rest in his lap. Castiel raises them, observing the cuts on his knuckles and the dark purplish bruising of his skin. “Did you get in a fight?” Castiel swallows, eyes cast down. His mouth can’t form any words to respond. Dean reaches out and holds Castiel’s fingers in his palms, lifting his knuckles. “Cas?” 

He feels his cheeks burn with shame and he desperately wants to rip his hand away and to lock himself in his chambers. “Hey,” Dean ducks his head forward to catch Castiel’s eyes. “What happened?” His voice has an underlying hardness to it. 

Castiel’s chest starts to heave. Dean suddenly looks down at Castiel’s hand in his own. It’s starting to shake again. Dean squeezes his hand tighter and that’s it – it’s too much. Castiel rips it away and stands, his stool toppling over behind him, and with bare feet and the rest of his clothes still lying in the floor, leaves.

He rushes out of Dean’s chambers and into his own, slamming the door closed and leaning back against it. He hears Dean call his name but it’s drowned out by the sound of cheering and prisoners hitting their fists against their cells.

He presses his body tight against the door, hoping that Dean won’t follow – that he won’t try to enter and after some amount of time, Castiel breathes and steps forward.

He nearly crashes into his bed, fumbling his way under the sheets and pulling them up to his chin. He shakes but it’s not from the cold.

Exhaustion pulls him under before his tears have a chance to fall.

 

______________________________________

 

Dean stares at the book lying in front of him. He doesn’t even know what it’s about – he just picked it blindly off his shelf and placed it on his desk. He’s staring at the first page. But he can’t see the words. All he can see is Castiel’s scars. 

All of them. Some jagged, some deep, some crossing over each other. Everywhere. On his chest and his stomach, his arms and even some on the back of his knees. He couldn’t take it all in at once, Castiel quickly shying away from him. Not to mention the new bruises that littered his gut. 

He’d felt sick. The fear in Castiel’s eyes. The shame as Dean stood there staring. His voice cracking. All of it. 

But Castiel had still let him touch him, clean him. And Dean had wanted to reach out. To those scars on his back – now with the added scars from his whipping, although some are much lighter than others. Guilt floods through him. All he did was add more marks to Castiel’s skin. If he hadn’t felt guilty already about hitting him, he had nearly forgotten about the whipping. 

He’d had to leave for a moment. It was all too much. 

He looks down to his wrist – the one Castiel twisted. But there are no scars there. Castiel never hurt him enough to leave a mark.

He doesn’t even pretend to concentrate anymore, resting his head in his hands. 

And whatever happened down there, in the dungeon, Dean suspects that maybe it has to do with that. Did the fight get too close? Did the fight bring back memories of however he ended up with all these scars?

He struggles to sit still, to not run to Castiel and – and…and what?

He doesn’t know.

The least he can do is stay away. He knows that’s what Castiel wants. 

It’s already dark outside, the last of the sun vanished below the horizon. Dinner will be here soon. He’s already had the maids come and clean up Castiel’s bile. He wonders if he should call for Castiel or not. Surely, he’s hungry. But he might be asleep and Dean doesn’t want to wake him.

So, he waits. Dinner comes eventually and perhaps it’s the scent that does it for Castiel emerges, bleary eyed and hair mussed, from his chambers. He’s still in only his undershirt with bare feet but he doesn’t seem to care. 

He stares at Dean without sitting, his hands clenched at his sides. “You get some sleep?” Dean says, trying to clear the tension in the air. Castiel nods. “Hungry?” He nods again and finally takes his seat across the table.

Dean nods towards the dinner and he hesitates only a second before reaching for some. Dean takes it as his own cue. It’s dreadfully silent except for the crunch of the food in their mouths until, once finished eating, Castiel speaks.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes down, hands in his lap. 

“I…” Dean swallows down a bite of food. “I’m sorry that you had to go there again. If I had…any influence over what happens down there, I would have never let you go.”

“It’s not your fault, Dean,” Castiel mutters, his body turned slightly in on itself.

“I’m not saying--” Dean pauses, taking a breath. “Whatever happened, Cas, I--”

“It’s fine, Dean.” Castiel finally meets his eyes. “Really.” Dean can see it in his eyes. It’s not fine. But he can tell it’s hurting him. He lets it drop.

“Would you like me to help you with cleaning the rest of your wounds or would you like Alissande to do it?”

“I can clean them myself.”

“Are you sure--”

Castiel’s eyes are challenging as he cuts him off. “Yes, Dean. I’m sure.” Dean glances to the empty plate in front of him. 

“I’ll get the supplies, then. And the rest of your clothes.” He promptly leaves the table, frowning. When he returns, Castiel is standing by his door. Dean hands everything over.

“Leave the basket out here when you’re done. I’ll have someone come to collect it.” 

“Thank you.” Castiel step into his chambers, placing a hand on the door. “Goodnight, Dean,” he murmurs, eyes peering up from under his eyelashes. Shadows cast over his face, highlighting the bruise on his cheek. 

Dean steps back, out of his way. “Goodnight, Cas.”

The door closes in front of him, Castiel disappearing from sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I was unable to post this chapter on the Saturday, however, I was able to get it up in the normal weekly schedule and so I'm still pretty happy with that since this week was pretty awful. I have to say the posting might be a bit bumpy in the next little while as I've frustratingly just been given new medications to try for my depression and that never goes smoothly lol so I'll keep updating you all here if I don't get the next chapter up by the usual Saturday ~8/9pm AEST and letting you know but you'll just have to bear with me. Apologies for that and thank you all for your lovely comments! They really mean a lot <3
> 
> UPDATE: The chapter, unfortunately, will not be up tonight. I've been sick all week from the first batch of new meds but I've decided to stop pursuing these new ones as they're just not working out which means I'll be able to get back to editing the chapter! I'll try my hardest to post it tomorrow night but if not it will be up in the next few days! Hope you are all having a wonderful week <3
> 
> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://angvlicmish.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: animal cruelty/death

He was stiff all over when he woke up this morning. Even though he slept through nearly the whole of yesterday, he still managed to sleep through the night. Luckily, no nightmares followed him into his slumber. 

But he had still woken to pain everywhere. The side of his head, his front and his back, even his legs were sore from the cramped position he had been sleeping in in the dungeons. His head stills feels sluggish and hence he can barely concentrate on healing his other wounds but a few days rest and he should be fine.

Orderic is rambling away about the history of Winchesters that reigned three hundred years ago as Dean listens on, interjecting with questions and even answering things before Orderic has even finished his own questions. Castiel can barely stand listening to it and wanders off into the library. He doesn’t stray too far from Dean but it’s enough that he can’t hear what they’re saying. He scans the spines of book after book. Anything about the angels. About the war. He pulls out a few that look promising but there’s scarcely anything about either. 

With his head still aching from the dungeons he doesn’t hear the guard approaching him until he’s standing right next to him. Castiel looks up, narrowing his eyes. 

“Can I help you?” he asks. 

“Actually,” the guard starts, “I was wondering if you could help me find--” Something is shoved into his mouth before he can react and his hands are being pulled tightly behind his back until it’s painful. Castiel whirls around wildly but his head starts to spin again and as his hands are being bound with rope, the guard in front of him is pulling a bag over his head. His vision goes black and Castiel tries to spit out the cloth that’s in his mouth but to no avail. He screams through it – hoping to alert Dean – but a hand is being held over his mouth to muffle the sound. He feels hands pulling at the handles of his swords and hears them fall to the floor before they reach for the two daggers sheathed at his thighs and dispose of them too.

And then he’s being dragged away, his legs kicking after him as he tries to stay on his feet. But he can barely move. Everything hurts and he can’t seem to focus on anything. 

The two men drag him away and away and Castiel continues to scream out but doesn’t hear anyone coming for him. His chest pulls tight, heart clenching. He closes his eyes. This is useless. He knows he can’t do anything – not in this state. He shouldn’t waste his energy. Instead, he goes limp. 

Finally, the man behind him swears as they lose hold of him and Castiel recognises his voice. Nicolaus. “Get him up. Quick,” Nicolaus whispers angrily to the other guard. 

He focuses on his breath, on not panicking – like he did in the dungeon. But that was different. Michael never taught him to deal with…with _that_. 

But it’s only Nicolaus here so most likely a beating. He can deal with that, can’t he? No matter how hard he tries, though, his heart still pounds in his chest. 

They each take a hold of him under his arms and once again begin to take him away, the heels of his boots dragging on the floor. Castiel tries to memorise the direction in which they’re going but it appears he can’t – they take turns into halls and passages that he’s never been down before. Most likely backway passages so that no one catches them – but in the end, it doesn’t matter for Castiel feels the rush of fresh air and the grass and snow at his heels. Grass and snow that turns to dirt and straw. 

Since he gave up on memorising the direction he doesn’t know which side of the castle he’s on. But he takes it he’s in the stables although it’s mostly quiet, the sound of swords clashing a far way off. Finally, however, he’s thrown down onto the hard ground. 

The jangle of chains sound and a shackle is snapped around one of his wrists just before the rope around his wrists are cut and the bag is pulled over his head. Castiel blinks, trying to adjust back to the light. He’s in a small stone room that’s patched with dirt and hay. And in front of him stands a large pig. 

He whips his head up to find Nicolaus and the other guard who dragged him here and one more that he recognises. Salicar. Castiel stands, pulling at the short chain with his hand. Salicar yanks the cloth from his mouth.

“What is this?” he demands. “Dean will find out that I’m missing any minute now.”

“Oh, you get to call him Dean, do you? Is that how close you are now?” Nicolaus scowls. “Well, don’t worry, we’ll only be a few minutes.”

Castiel clenches his jaw. “What do you want with me? Why are you--”

“Oh, you know,” Nicolaus cuts across. “You took everything I had worked for from me. All those years and you just stumbled in and fucking took it.” He’s still jealous of his position with Dean? He remembers that from the beating Nicolaus gave him in the dungeon with Salicar along his side.

Castiel shakes his head. “I never wanted this. The prince chose--”

“Then why didn’t you leave?” Nicolaus says, raising his voice. “We heard. All of us heard about what happened in Narla. They said you weren’t there. You could’ve left. Run away.” Nicolaus steps forward but not close enough for Castiel to reach him. “But you didn’t. Why didn’t you?” Castiel stares him down, not caving. 

“And for the rest of us,” Salicar says, “You humiliated us all. Nicolaus may have worked hard for that position but we all worked hard to get our places in this castle. And you did nothing. You showed no respect for the king or for the crown prince. And all you get is chance after chance.” Castiel doesn’t even know where this is going. What is the point of all this?

“Nicolaus, we need to hurry,” the other guard says, eyeing back the way they came in. Nicolaus nods. 

“Fine. I’ll just get to it. We saw you at the festival. Your little act.” He glances towards the pig, standing in the middle of the room. Salicar takes a bucket from the corner and places it under the pig’s head. 

Castiel’s eyes widen. “Don’t. Please don’t.” Nicolaus laughs. 

“We barely have to do anything and you’re already begging. How about this?” He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, thinking for a moment. “You get on your knees and I won’t gut it right here in front of you.”

A life is worth far more than his pride. It’s no question. Castiel gets on his knees. Nicolaus stands there, eyes narrowing. It’s not what he was expecting. 

“Perhaps you are not quite the man everyone makes you out to be,” he says. Castiel stares at him, eyes hard. 

Within a breath Nicolaus slips a dagger from his sheath and stabs the pig in the neck. Castiel shouts, jumping forward but his shackle restrains him. The pig shrieks loud and shrill, it’s blood pouring out into the wooden bucket Salicar holds. 

The emotion builds in his chest, his chest clenching harder. The pig slumps to its side, a deadweight. Salicar takes the bucket and lifts it. Castiel’s heart lurches in his throat.

He holds his free hand out. “Please don’t.”

“Scared of a little blood, are you?” Salicar snarls. 

“This is for everything,” Nicolaus says, as Salicar steps forward and throws the bucket of blood all over his face. His breath hitches, eyes closing as the blood soaks his hair and skin. 

Nicolaus says something else but Castiel can’t hear it. There’s a pounding in his skull as he rubs furiously at his eyes, trying to wipe the blood away. He blinks rapidly, looking around the now empty room. The pig still lies on the floor as Castiel pulls hard at his shackle. “Nicolaus!” he shouts, the panic welling, threatening to crush him. “Nic—” He cuts himself off as he spots the key lying in the dirt and quickly gets down on his knees to reach for it. When he does he fumbles to open the shackles, hands slippery with red. 

He finally clicks it open and falls back against the wall. His chest rises and falls quickly and he’s nearly up and leaving when he hears the sound of strained breathing beside him. It’s still alive. 

Castiel lets out a muffled sob, falling to his knees beside it. He stares at it longingly for a moment, unsure of what to do. But deep down, he knows what to do. He shakily pulls the hidden dagger from his boot and wraps himself over the pig, stroking its skin – the last of its warmth draining from it’s body. “Shh,” he whispers, “Shh, it’s okay.” He bites his lip hard and sheathes the dagger. It’s breathing stops. 

Tears splatter onto it’s skin as more blood spills out and Castiel has to drag himself away. Now, it’s everywhere. All over his hands and face and neck. 

_He’s drowning._

He stands and starts to run out of the stone building. Wet blood spills down his face.

_He fights for air but with every moment it gets harder to breathe._

He sprints inside, not stopping at the stares or the shouts of guards that chase after him. 

_Blood gushes from the slash in their neck down onto his face._

There are two guards waiting outside their chambers. He goes to enter but they block the door, hands pushing him away. Their mouths are moving but he can’t make out the words. He shoves past them and raps on the door loudly.

_The weight on his limbs crushes him._

He can feel his chest starting to cave in and he bends over slightly fighting for air. The door opens in front of him and Dean is there through a lens of blood and Castiel pushes through into their dining hall and runs straight for his chambers, bursting through the door.

Tears sting at his eyes. Blood is slipping down into his mouth and he tries to wipe it away but the blood on his hands only adds to it.

_He chokes on it._

Castiel reaches for the bucket beside his tub that’s always filled with water. He crashes onto his knees in front of it and skids too close, knocking it forward. The water spills out. He stands to pick it up. A hand reaches inside of him, gripping his heart tightly. 

_He can’t breathe._

He can’t breathe.

Someone’s hand is on his shoulder. He whirls around, knocking the hand away, his other fist ready to strike but two hands are on either side of his face – warm and gentle despite the blood. 

“Cas! Look at me,” Dean says, almost pleading. Emotion surges in his throat. “You’re here with me. It’s okay.” His voice is soft – caring. The pressure in his chest collapses and he stumbles forward into Dean’s chest, sobs wracking painfully from his body. 

One of Dean’s arms quickly wraps around his back, helping to hold him up as the other slides through his hair, clutching at him. Castiel’s own rest curled on Dean’s chest. 

“I can’t do this,” he sobs. “I can’t--”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“No, I – they murdered it. They gutted it,” he cries. “And he tried to--” He can’t even say it. He’s too ashamed. Too revolted. “He tried to have me. And I don’t know how – I can’t do this.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, he doesn’t know why it spills out but Dean is there, solid beneath him – holding him close. 

The cries wrack through his body but the blood is still wet and all he can smell is the death around him. He pushes away from Dean, who reluctantly lets go, and stumbles back over to the bucket on the ground. He scrapes at the water in the ground, trying to get anything. He doesn’t even notice that Dean has left the room until he returns with a full bucket of water. 

He plunges his hands in wiping the blood away quickly before splashing it on his face and furiously scrubbing until he feels his skin go raw. His heart still races and his tears still fall but as he picks the bucket up and dumps it over himself, he feels the tiniest sense of relief. 

Dean kneels in front of him, unsure of what to do.

He breathes again. He can breathe again. He sits back against the wall, knees pulled up and wraps his hands around the back of his head, pulling it to his knees as if he can hide himself from the world.

He closes his eyes, focusing on his breath coming in and out, slower and slower. His face crumples and he chokes out a cry before the tears flood down his face again, his body trembling.

It’s agony. It feels as though someone has reached in and ripped his heart out of his chest. He just wants everything to stop. All of this to stop. He wants his mother and father to hold him. He wants to run through the fields with Kyra and Elaria, hands held in each of his own as they spread their wings.

He wants to watch the sun rise over Iowan, lighting up the sky with the purple and orange hues unique to his home. 

He wants to go home.

And then Dean’s arms are around him once more, pulling him to his chest and he finally surrenders himself, letting his walls crumble down for the first time in a long time. 

 

______________________________________

 

They sit there for a while, Dean on his knees beside Castiel, pulling him to his chest until the muffled sobs fade completely. Dean had called for Castiel after his lesson had ended, having only seen him wander off a few minutes earlier. With no response he had gone looking and found Castiel’s swords and daggers on the floor. 

He didn’t know what to think. But he knew it wasn’t good. He’d barely been pacing in his chambers for more than five minutes when the rapping on the door had sounded and he heard the commotion from the hall. 

And there he was – eyes wild and breathing shallowly with blood everywhere – half of his face and hair covered along with his hands. He still doesn’t know what to think. But at least the blood doesn’t seem to be coming from Castiel himself. 

He’s finally stopped trembling and Dean slowly leans away, one arm still resting on his back for comfort. Castiel keeps his head buried in his knees. The room is silent. Dean tries to work up the courage to say something but can’t think of anything at all. He stands instead and grabs a small cloth that’s stacked in the chest that Castiel has his other sets of clothes in and walks back over. 

Castiel is peeking up from over his knees now, watching him with teary eyes. Dean drags the half full bucket of water over and sits down beside him. 

“There’s still some blood on your face,” he says, but Castiel doesn’t react, only stares at Dean as though he’s seeing right through him. Dean swallows, deciding to take it upon himself. 

He wets the cloth and slowly brings it to Castiel’s face. When he doesn’t flinch away, Dean persists until he’s wiping at the small streaks of blood still running down near Castiel’s ear.

He wants to ask what happened. Wants to ask what he meant when he said ‘they murdered it’ and ‘they tried to have me’. Have him killed? Have him what? But Castiel’s eyes are glazed over and red rimmed and he knows he should keep his questions for later.

Castiel’s clothes are stained with blood and he can tell some of it has probably trailed down his shoulders and chest. He’ll have to bathe now and get the clothes washed. The room already reeks from it all.

He wipes the remaining blood from his face, hesitant when he scrapes some off the top of his lip. But he still doesn’t react. 

“You should rest,” he says. “Or at least bathe. I can get someone to bring up hot water if you want.” Castiel’s eyes widen slightly. “Or have them leave it outside,” he adds quickly. Castiel relaxes, nodding.

Dean bites his lip, wanting to say more. “Okay.” He stands and looks around at the mess. There’s blood splattered on the floor and a puddle of water next to the tub. Dean uprights the tipped over bucket and notes to have someone come and clean it up once Castiel is fine. 

“I’ll go fetch a maid to get some.” Castiel doesn’t even nod this time. Dean sighs, turning to leave although every part of him is yearning for him to stay – to go back and hold him close. Because Castiel needs the comfort. That’s why. _That’s why_ , Dean tells himself.

As he approaches the door, he hears it, a small, defeated voice calling his name. He turns, his heart fluttering in relief. _Ask me to stay_. Castiel only holds his eyes for so long before looking away. 

Dean thinks he’s imagined it for Castiel doesn’t speak again but as he closes the door behind him, he thinks he sees Castiel glance up at him once more. 

 

______________________________________

 

_He’s drowning. Always drowning. The moonlight from above is slowly dissipating as more and more bodies are thrown onto the pile. The weight on his limbs crushes him. He fights for air but with every second it gets harder to breathe, his chest caving in on itself. Another body is thrown onto the mound and blood gushes from the slash in their neck down onto his face._

_He cries, thrashing his head from side to side to try and shake it off – to try and spit the feathers from his mouth. But it doesn’t stop. The blood slides down his face, into his eyes and his mouth. He chokes on it. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t--_

_The weight on his limbs grows lighter. The light from above grows larger and someone’s there. Someone has found him. He can’t make them out from the blood in his eyes but he knows this is it. He’ll be killed – murdered – just like all the others._

_But suddenly a hand is reaching down for him and a face comes into view. He blinks through the light and the blood and it’s familiar. He knows that face. His heart surges in his chest and he reaches to take the hand in his own – warm and gentle. And as he’s pulled from the pile of bodies, he takes in a deep breath of ash and smoke, coughing and spluttering._

_But he’s saved and wiping the blood from his eyes, he finally looks to the person in front of him._

_And then Castiel knows this isn’t real. This is a dream._

_Dean smiles and squeezes the hand that still rests in his own._

 

______________________________________

 

They start to sweat even in the cold, grunting hard as they shovel at the ground. At one point Dean insists Castiel sits down and let him do the rest. Castiel tries to tell him he doesn’t need rest but eventually he sits after Dean insists for the fourth time. 

His bruises and cuts on his back and stomach from the guards kicking him in the dungeons are almost healed but the bruise on his face he received in Narla and the gash on the side of his head still linger. And he hates it. Hates the feeling of knowing he can do something about it but not being able to.

He still hasn’t told Dean what happened. Dean had left him alone for most of yesterday even though he had so terribly wanted him to stay and in the morning, Castiel had only led him to the pig that still lay dead in a pool of blood in the stone building and said he wanted to bury it. He knew Dean wanted to ask then – but only agreed and had some of the guards load it into a crate and hooked onto the back of his horse. 

They’d ridden to the east, toward the tree line and Castiel found a nice, undisturbed place to start digging.

Once Dean’s finished, they haul the pig into the grave and start to pile on the dirt. 

Castiel sits down in front of it after, brushing the grass through his fingers. Misery washes over him and it must show on his face as Dean speaks a moment later. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he says sincerely, face tinted with sadness.

Castiel stares at the grave, hearing the shrieking in his head all over again. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, and his chest aches. “It would have been killed sooner or later.”

He stands then, brushing his dirty hands on his trousers – not waiting for Dean to respond. Although, he’s not sure he was going to anyway.

He closes his eyes and sends a quick prayer to his Elo de Olapireta, asking him to guide this soul to peace. And then he remembers. A bitter laugh escapes on a huff. Dean glances towards him.

“What?” Castiel shakes his head. 

“Nothing. We should go. We haven’t trained in quite a few days.” He heads towards his horse and begins to untie it from a low hanging branch. Turning, he finds Dean still standing over the grave. “Are you coming?”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t want to train this morning. We should go somewhere else.” Castiel tilts his head. He’s not particularly in the mood for training either but at least it would have distracted him. Although…

“Where?” A small, sad smile pulls at Dean’s lips. 

“I’ll show you. Follow me.”

They trot further east, Castiel following close to Dean as the arrive at the denser part of the forest. Throwing a look over his shoulder, Castiel can barely see out to the hills. But Dean seems to know exactly where he’s going so Castiel doesn’t question it.

Finally, they reach a clearing and he sees where the prince is taking him. A small lake, with a rocky outcrop as the backdrop – water falling over it and leading away down a small stream. 

Dean throws a leg over his horse and jumps down to tie it to a tree. “Nice, isn’t it?” Dean says, as Castiel finds another tree to bind his own horse to.

“It’s beautiful.” Dean shoots him a proud smile.

“Yeah, it is.” The water is pristine, twinkling where the sun reflects off of it. “I used to come here when I was younger with...” His smile begins to fade. “But I haven’t really been in a while.” Castiel suddenly feels special – like he’s being shown something private. And something tells him that what he was going to say was he came here with his mother. “Anyways.” Dean waves a flippant hand, turns, pulling off his golden bands and starts to undo the buttons on his jerkin. 

Castiel instantly flicks his eyes away. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Dean says with a laugh. Castiel stares at the glinting water. His eyes widen in disbelief. 

“You’re not going in there, are you?” he splutters.

“What? You scared of the cold?” Castiel flinches, taking a step back. Luckily Dean is still facing the other way. 

“No,” he says as calmly as possible. Michael trained him to withstand the cold. _And your father trained me long before that_ , he thinks, remembering those miserable nights after the invasion. 

Dean glances over his shoulder, eyeing him warily. “Besides,” he says, “winter is nearly over and the natural springs here make it slightly warmer.” Castiel must have lost track of time because Dean’s right. The spring equinox is not too far away now. “So, you joining me or what?” He shrugs off his jerkin – his doublet and undershirt quickly following.

Broad, muscled shoulders stare back at him. Dean pulls off his boots and throws them to the ground before he reaches for his belt. Castiel feels the heat rising in his cheeks and looks away. He flails his hands out to his sides before answering, “Fine, I’ll join you but if you freeze to death, I’m not going to save you.”

Dean huffs a laugh as Castiel pulls off his silver bands and starts to unbutton his own jerkin. “You talk a big game, Cas. But I’ve been swimming in these waters for years.” Castiel rolls his eyes. He doesn’t know why anyone would ever willingly swim in freezing waters. Although, technically that’s what he’s doing right now.

Suddenly Castiel hears splashing to the side. He looks over just to see Dean wade into the water naked and submerge himself up to his neck. Castiel feels the heat rising again as he pulls his undershirt over his head and kicks off his boots, still keeping the inside of his left arm shielded from view.

He freezes in panic for a moment, remembering the cuts and bruises he’d almost fully healed on his back and stomach but once he looks over to Dean, the prince is turned away. With his eye on him, he quickly sheds the rest of his clothes and wades naked into the water a little way away from the prince. 

The cold is a shock to his body but he grits his teeth and submerges himself up to his shoulders. He’s definitely not staying in here long. Dean finally turns around and Castiel doesn’t miss the way he glances down to the scar visible on his shoulder before meeting his eyes. 

The prince smiles, suddenly shy but still wades towards him. Castiel watches him carefully, his toes curling in the sand. Dean stops only an arm’s length away and as he does, he cups his hand and scoops the water out, raising it and trickling it down over Castiel’s hair. 

Castiel stares at him blankly and Dean grins, although it’s partially strained. And Castiel realises Dean’s trying to cheer him up. His throat constricts with sudden emotion before he pushes it down. “There. All better.” Castiel slowly cups his own hand in the water and raises it to trickle right down Dean’s face. A thank you for what Dean is trying to achieve.

Dean closes his eyes as the onslaught of droplets fall over his eyes before shaking his head out like a wet dog. “Dean!” Castiel jerks away but still ends up being sprayed. Dean laughs, pushing away to float on his back, unabashed by his own nudity.

Castiel turns towards the rockface and scrutinises all of the dents and marks as he starts to move his arms and legs so not to freeze in place. Other than the blistering cold, it’s a beautiful day. He wouldn’t mind coming back here again. If Dean would allow it. 

As if Dean has read his thoughts, he says from a few yards away, “You know, we can come here sometimes.” He stands again and walks towards Castiel once more. “Whenever you need a break,” he says softly. Castiel swallows. He doesn’t know what came over him yesterday. He shouldn’t have said anything to Dean. He should have told him to leave. 

Deep down he knows he would never have been able to do that but Michael’s voice is still in his head, chastising him for his mistakes.

So, Castiel avoids the real question there as he responds. “Then you’ll just use it as an excuse whenever you don’t want to train.” Dean huffs but his eyes flash with disappointment.

“Well, you know, just say the word and we’ll--” Dean flicks his head towards the lake. Castiel nods, not sure how to thank him. Instead he just glances down at the water in front of him. “How’s your head?” And suddenly Dean’s cold fingers are grazing his cheek, turning it to the side. 

Castiel shivers, his cheeks heating at the intimate touch. It’s still so strange. That he’s not repulsed by this – although there is still the overwhelming desire to jerk away, the desire to lean into the touch now overpowers it. 

And he knows this is bad. He can’t let himself… _feel_ things. It could jeopardise everything. 

Glancing up, Dean’s even closer than before – water trickling down his skin, droplets catching on his collarbone. Dean’s eyes are questioning, concerned, his breath on Castiel’s lips a stark contrast to the cold. 

Castiel aches to lean into him, to let him hold him again. It’s all he’s ever wanted.

“We should get out,” he says, stepping away instead. Dean’s hand falls and with a small frown, nods. It’s only as he’s wading to the shore that he realises he didn’t even answer Dean’s question.

Dean wades out first, most likely to give Castiel his own privacy and Castiel glares at the ground in front of him, walking quickly to his clothes. He pulls on his undergarments without even bothering to dry himself. However, a few moments later Dean is tapping him on the shoulder and holding out a towel, Castiel quickly turning his left arm inwards. He came prepared. Perhaps he had planned to come here today.

Castiel can’t help his eyes flicking to his hard chest and his toned arms. He curses himself, taking the towel from Dean in his right hand but doesn’t feel as guilty when he sees Dean gazing at his own bare skin. Although, he knows Dean’s not looking _at_ him – only looking at his scars. 

Dean’s clears his throat when he notices he’s been caught, swiftly turning away. Castiel towels himself off roughly, making sure he’s as warm as he can be before finishing getting dressed. He attends to his horse while he waits for Dean and with only a few words exchanged between them, they set off back towards the castle. 

They stop at their usual spot out in the grass, far away from the castle and other guards training. 

Castiel twirls his sword in his hand as he watches Dean walk over. “Today we’re going to work on--”

“What happened, Cas?” Castiel’s throat constricts. “I mean, what happened yesterday? And in the dungeons? You know you can tell me, right?” Castiel has the slightest sense of relief knowing he wasn’t asking about his scars until he realises he’s going to have to tell Dean about _that_. He supposes he owes him the truth. Dean’s been so kind to him and yet he’s given nothing in return. He doesn’t have anything to give. Perhaps this is all has to give.

He swallows, taking a few deep breaths. He’ll start with the easiest. “I was caught by some guards in the library. They took me to that small room in the pens and chained me up. I…” Castiel shakes his head. “They were resentful that I had been given this position, guarding you, without having worked for it like they had.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Who were they? Did you get their names?”

Castiel sighs. “It doesn’t matter, Dean.”

“Yes, it does!”

“What would you possibly do? What _could_ you do?” Dean’s eyes fall and Castiel knows he’s hurt him but it’s the truth. Dean doesn’t hold a lot of power in this castle. And somehow, Castiel thinks that the king would only encourage Nicolaus and his comrades in torturing Castiel rather than punish them for hurting him.

“I want to know, anyway,” Dean says. 

Castiel bites his lip. “There were three of them. I only know two. Nicolaus and Salicar.” Dean’s mouth parts and he swears under his breath.

“That fucking… You know, he was my guard for a few days until he left for Kalapell and came back with you.”

“I know. He holds the most rage for me out of all of them.”

“Shit, Cas, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” He pauses and Dean raises his eyebrows, gesturing to continue. “They slaughtered the pig in front of me after seeing what happened at the festival and drained its blood before…” Castiel gestures to his face and Dean nods. 

“And the dungeons?”

Castiel takes a few deep breaths. “Some of the guards who were obviously resentful towards me as well chained me to the wall in a cell holding other prisoners. They…” he hesitates for a moment, the words catching in his throat. “…the prisoners attacked me. I fought them off.” Looking into Dean’s eyes, he can tell the prince knows that’s not the whole story.

“What did you mean when you said ‘he tried to have me’?” Castiel flicks his eyes to the ground, his hands clenching into fists. He can’t speak – can’t will his mouth to form words. But he doesn’t need to – Dean does it for him. “Did one of them…try to rape you?”

Castiel doesn’t respond, his cheeks burning with humiliation. The silence must be enough of an answer. “Cas,” Dean breathes out and he can’t handle this. Can’t handle the way he says his name or the way he looks at him like he _cares_. 

“It’s fine, Dean.”

“No, it’s--”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Castiel says, voice raised. Dean runs a hand through his own hair and steps into his personal space.

“Cas, you know, if you want to leave--” Castiel startles at his words, stepping backwards.

“I can’t leave, Dean.” But Dean misinterprets what he’s saying. 

“I know but if I said I was going out of the castle to see someone, they would let me and once you’re out you can run far from here.”

“Dean, I – why are you saying this?”

Dean’s eyes fill with sadness. “Because I was there. I saw you – I heard you. You kept saying you couldn’t do this over and over. And I…I don’t want to keep you here if it’s killing you.”

Castiel looks to his feet. He’d hoped Dean had forgotten that or hadn’t been able to hear over his cries. If only he had kept his mouth shut. 

“It’s not,” he says, although that’s most certainly a lie. “I was just tired and…it was a spur of the moment. Like I told you before, I have nowhere to go.”

Dean holds his eyes, searching for answers. Answers that Castiel can’t give. “Okay,” he says, although the uncertainty is clear in his voice. It makes him think of how incredibly lonely Dean is. And he continues to wonder how it would hurt him if he left. 

Maybe he does care. Castiel shakes the thought away. He can’t think that. He can’t _hope_ that.

Not now. Not ever. 

And yet, it lingers there just under the surface, waiting to catch him. And halfway through training Dean trips on Castiel’s sword and ends up on his backside. He laughs, lips pulling wide and eyes slipping shut for a moment. 

He resists it but he knows deep down that he’s already been caught.

 

______________________________________

 

Two days later and Dean is dragging Castiel out into the roaming hills where they train after dinner. It’s been a nice two days. Dean has spent most of it studying while he lets Castiel rest in his room – although he always insists he’s fine and ready to go about their day again as usual.

It’s been nice. He still feels that guilt sitting in his stomach about what happened to Castiel. If only he could do something about it. But he’s useless. And helping Castiel leave this place was the only thing he could think of, even though it hurt him even to suggest it.

Now, although he doesn’t know why, he wants to take Castiel away from the castle. Just for a night, just to let him breathe. He still hears those words in his head, the strangled emotion that slipped from Castiel’s lips.

_I can’t do this._

He doesn’t even want to think about it. It makes him feel even more guilty. Even more useless. He knows he wasn’t welcoming at the start although Castiel wasn’t exactly pleasured to be stuck with him either but he knows that what happened in Narla hurt him. And he desperately wants to feel useful. 

The lake was one thing but it’s not enough. So, here they are. They’re walking now, away from where the horses are tied up to their usual posts, out into the fields. The night is cold but the stars are out, not a cloud in sight.

It always feels special when he comes out here. And with Castiel standing there, head craned up to the stars, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips, he can’t help but feel that it’s even more special tonight.

He finds a relatively dry place to sit – while it hasn’t snowed in the last few days, the cold still leaves the grass damp. He leans back on his hands, feet out in front of him. He doesn’t call for Castiel to come over, just waits, watching as the other man marvels at the sky. 

It’s ceaselessly beautiful here in Anathee. His mother used to tell him the stories of the stars – of the gods. 

Of how two brothers created the world, Leuric and Patrus. Hundreds of years ago, before the fall, angels lived in the skies and watched over the god’s creations. Their sole duty was to guide the humans to be good when they strayed from their path and after death, lead their souls to the afterlife. 

His mother never told him the rest of the story. He first learnt about it when he was six years old through Orderic in a history lesson. The angels were sinners. And not only that but they influenced humans with their ways. The gods, sickened by what they saw, punished them and sent them falling to earth. 

However, the angels only continued their ways on earth ignorant of the meaning of their own punishment. They converged on the northern continent – on Torrin and built themselves a home there. Not wanting to live alongside them, King Winchester of the time finally allowed them to draw a line in the dirt and Karlon was from then on, penned onto the maps.

He always wonders why his mother never told him the rest of the story.

Castiel finally sits beside him, legs crossed beneath him. “It’s beautiful,” he says, eyes still trained on the night. 

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs. “My--” he stops, realising this is the first time he’s spoken to Castiel about his mother. Castiel’s eyes a wide and innocent. And for some strange reason, Dean feels safe. “My mother used to bring me out here sometimes and tell me stories of our gods from looking at the stars.”

Castiel’s lips quirk into a small smile. “My mother did too. Except not only did she tell me about just our gods but all of them – or at least all she knew.” Dean remembers Castiel telling him about how his mother and father were travellers and how they learnt of many different cultures and religions. He wonders if that really is true.

“Tell me then. Tell me about the stars,” he says and Castiel has a soft look in his eye that makes Dean’s heart swell.

“Which should I start with?”

Dean thinks for a moment before asking, “What about the angels? Do you know of their religion?” He’s only heard bits and pieces from his mother who used to visit their capital, Iowan, to sort out affairs for years but he’s never found any books that go into depth about it. He never has many lessons on the vile animals mostly because they’re gone now and what’s the point but Dean’s always wanted to learn more to perhaps understand how they become such violent creatures – understand why they tried to take Torrin for themselves and most of all why they took his mother from her chambers.

“I do. It’s one of the first religions my mother and father studied seeming as they only lived just over the border.” Castiel looks up and leans slightly over, his shoulders nudging against Dean’s. He points towards the night sky and after a little bit of guiding and explaining, Dean starts to see the shape of an arm reaching down to grab another – as if pulling it up. 

And then he begins. 

“I’m unsure of their real names in Enochian but there were two gods who created the world together, the God of Light and the God of Darkness. When the angel’s moved to Torrin, they took up the native tongue here and used our own names for them, Leuric for the God of Light and Patrus for the God of Darkness. They created humans and to balance the world put in place a paradise, an in between and an underworld.”

“In between?” He’s heard of that before – that angels believed in demons and there was an underworld. But he’s never heard of an in between. Castiel nods.

“The in between is where the souls wait before being taken to either the underworld or paradise. It is where their fate is decided. The angels were created by Leuric for this purpose, to guide the good souls from the in between to paradise. The demons were created by Patrus to guide the evil souls to the underworld. The world was at balance.”

“The gods sometimes visited the earth in their mortal forms to watch over their creations. While Leuric helped them along their way, Patrus only saw darkness in the souls of the humans, even the ones who made it to paradise. The god secretly sent demons to touch the souls of the humans to bring forth the darkness in them and doing so condemn their souls to the underworld.”

“Sounds like a nice guy,” Dean says, huffing a laugh. Castiel narrows his eyes. 

“In the angel’s religion the gods were not male or female. They are merely light and dark after all.” 

“Oh,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess that makes sense. But what about their mortal forms?”

Castiel shrugs. “Their mortal forms were never described.” Dean nods, although he hardly takes in Castiel’s words – getting distracted by Castiel’s shoulders brushing against his own. He doesn’t understand why but it’s making him vaguely uncomfortable.

Castiel shakes his head. “Anyways, where were we?”

“The dark god sent demons to touch the souls of humans.” Castiel nods.

“Yes, well, meanwhile an angel who’d been visiting earth for a while found two brothers. They developed a bond and after spending much time together, the angel fell in love with the eldest. One day he visited them and found out what had happened – what Patrus had been doing. A demon had touched the soul of the youngest and he was destined for the underworld. But in a sacrifice to save his brother, the eldest sold his soul to a demon in return for his brother’s place in paradise when he passed on. He was a righteous man. For the fallen angel believed it was true, what Patrus saw, that all humans had darkness in them and that’s what made the good ones so beautiful. Because they fought the hardest to stay true.” 

Dean’s eyes fall to the ground. He likes to believe he is a good person, that he stays true to himself. But sometimes he’s not so sure.

“The angel, unable to bear the thought of their beloved’s soul sinking into the depths of the underworld, decided to to fight against it. They knew they couldn’t defeat the God of Darkness and that the God of Light would never make the sacrifice needed. So, the angel did it themselves. They drew all essence that made them an angel out of them and used the three ingredients to do a powerful spell. Powerless, they became mortal. Human. The only sign that they were once holy, the physical manifestations of wings on their back.”

_Mortal. Human._ Dean’s never really thought of it like that. That angels are human. Perhaps it’s because how can such animals be considered at all human?

“With their essence, the spell closed the doors to paradise and to the underworld. Both angels and demons lost their powers and while the demons were trapped in the underworld, the angels fell to earth.”

“Wait, hold on,” Dean starts cutting him off. “Why did the angel close the doors to paradise too and make the angels fall? Why didn’t they just close the underworld and trap the demons inside?”

Strangely, a small smile pulls at Castiel’s lips. “Unfortunately, in the angel’s religion everything balances out. Gods of light and of dark. Angels and demons. Good souls and bad souls. When the angel closed the doors to the underworld, the doors to paradise closed too. Balance. It’s why the angel did the spell themselves – it’s why it was deemed the great sacrifice. Because to save their beloved and all humans condemned unjustly, the angel had to close paradise as well and have all of their kind fall to earth, completely stripped of their essenses and turned human.”

Dean whistles. “That’s quite the sacrifice. And what about the souls then? Where do they go?”

Castiel pauses for a moment, pondering on something before answering. “The souls in the in between were left there waiting. Without angels and demons to guide them or the doors to paradise and the underworld open, they are left stranded.”

“And what happened to the angel?”

“Some of the angels tried to hunt them down for what they’d done. They were renamed the fallen angel but not because they had fallen from paradise but because they had fallen in love with a mortal – something deemed as crime. So, the angel and the two brothers fled and as they did they found out that the rest of the angels were not the only ones hunting them. One demon still remained on earth, scouring the land in search of the ingredients to the spell that would reopen the doors to the underworld. It shouldn’t have been possible. The spell should have sucked all demons on earth back through the portal to the underworld.”

“But they believed that the God of Darkness touched the soul of the demon and granted it the strength to withstand the spell. At this realisation, the fallen angel scattered the ingredients, hiding them from the demon that searched. Once the rest of the angels found out of Patrus’ deeds – poisoning the souls of innocent humans – they decided that it was their duty to protect the ingredients for the spell and stop the doors to the underworld from ever being reopened. This is what their god would want them to do. They came from all over and together, settled in Iowan, rebuilding it as their home.”

Castiel’s eyes are still trained on the stars, Dean watching him intently. “Some believe that in fact, the God of Light touched the soul of the fallen angel, leading the angel to fall in love and complete the spell – that the God of Light knew about the poisoning of hearts and this was the only way to stop it. It was their plan all along.”

After a moment of pause, Dean understands that the story has ended. “That’s quite the story.”

Castiel shrugs. “To the angels it was not just a story. Just like our own religion. It is not just a story.” 

Dean nods, gazing up at the stars. “And the hands reaching out to each other…”

“It never had one true meaning. Some say it represents the fallen angel saving the righteous man from his descent into the underworld. Others say it’s the righteous man pulling the fallen angel down to earth, condemning them along with all of the other angels here forever.”

“So, how does it end?”

Castiel raises one eyebrow. “End?”

“Yeah, what happened with the demon? Did it ever find the spell?” Castiel looks at him strangely before shaking his head. 

“I wouldn’t know. I only know as much as my mother and father told me.” Dean frowns, disappointed. He looks to the stars again, eyes tracing the hands that clutch at each other. 

After a while, they delve into silence, simply gazing up at the cloudless night. Although, Dean finds his eyes drawn to Castiel, observing the soft lines of his face and the relaxed shape of his mouth. It’s enough for Dean to drag Castiel out the night after that and pull him down onto the grass – another beautiful night.

Castiel’s eyes immediately flick up to the night sky, face serene and Dean says, a small smile tugging at his lips, “Tell me about the stars.”

 

______________________________________

 

Dean takes Castiel to the library under the guise of letting him borrow some books for his chambers. As Castiel wanders off, Dean does so himself, except he has something more particular in mind. 

He scours the shelves for anything to do with the angels – the angels religion, history, lore – anything. After Castiel told him the story, something had ignited in him and he wants to know more. He wants to know everything. It could give him answers that he’s never been able to unearth. 

And yet, he comes up short, unable to find anything at all. 

 

______________________________________

 

Dean is getting better – faster, smoother, lighter but at the same time stronger – he actually serves to match Castiel – although he still does go a little easy on him. 

Somehow, after Dean having a hold of his left arm and Castiel having attempted to duck underneath – Dean had quickly darted his other hand out to grab Castiel’s right arm pulling them tightly across each other.

And now, Castiel finds himself with his arms crossed over his chest, pulled firmly until he cannot move as Dean yanks him backwards. 

Dean’s hot breath is on his neck and his solid chest is pressed up against his back. It’s distracting and Castiel reprimands himself for it. And yet, he can’t stop. Ever since he let Dean in – let him hold him close – Castiel has felt differently about him. It’s bad enough that it serves as a distraction but to humans it is a sin and if he expresses too much it could endanger him.

But the way Dean touches him and holds his eyes – more so than usual now too – he can’t let that go. It seems whenever he can get the chance he’s helping Castiel up by the hand or checking the gash on the side of his head with light fingers pressed to his jaw. And it’s not only that he doesn’t want to retreat away from Dean but he can’t. The prince is the only thing grounding him. But he needs to pull away. Before it’s too late. 

In the furtherest corners of his mind, however, he already knows it’s too late. 

“Ha ha!” Dean cheers himself, keeping Castiel’s arms tight across his chest. He pants heavily, chest rising and falling at Castiel’s back. He closes his eyes in an attempt to regain his concentration. “Looks like I win.”

“Did you forget what I taught you?”

“Forget? What did you teach me?” Dean asks, now concerned. 

“Stop getting distracted with your victories. It’s your biggest flaw.”

“I know--” Castiel stamps down as hard as he can on Dean’s foot before kicking back against the side of Dean’s knee. The prince’s grip loosens as he bends forward and Castiel twists out of his grip and out of his reach.

Dean huffs, exasperated before he lets out a frustrated growl, and runs towards him, fists swinging. Castiel ducks to the side and taking a hold of his arm that’s still following through, uses the momentum to haul Dean to the ground.

The breath punches out of Dean and Castiel quickly pins him. He struggles, thrashing and twisting but Castiel holds tight. He slumps his head back into the ground with an annoyed frown. 

Castiel observes the pout of his lips, shining with spit and the way his hair stands up from the sweat. His arms strain against his sleeves as he attempts to thrash him off again.

Castiel swallows around the lump in his throat and slightly adjusts his left leg. 

Dean sees the opening and swiftly twists, throwing Castiel onto the ground on his back and successfully pinning him – with the proper technique that Castiel himself can’t even wriggle out of. 

He feels the strange sense of guilt now as Dean smiles down at him, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, fingers wrapped around Castiel’s bare wrists. His own cheeks burn with shame. He shouldn’t be doing this to the prince. He doesn’t want this. 

“I win this time,” Dean says with a grin. 

“Yes, you did. Now let me up,” Castiel says, not even indulging Dean in his win. Dean’s smile falls slightly and he stands, reaching a hand down for Castiel.

He considers ignoring the prince and standing up himself. But Dean’s lips are already turned down so he takes it. He pulls him up with more force than Castiel was expecting and he finds himself standing only inches away from Dean, their chests almost touching.

He blinks, finding himself staring at Dean’s lips and quickly flicks them away. Dean’s hand still holds his own but now it burns. He rips it from his grasp and wanders away from the prince.

“That’s enough for now. We’ll recommence in the evening.” Castiel’s eyes stay fixed on the ground as he walks back to the horses – Dean’s gaze heavy on him as he goes. 

 

______________________________________

 

There is a ball tonight – the first one Castiel will ever attend. It’s to celebrate the spring equinox although it’s over half a moon early. No one knows why – even Dean says he doesn’t know but that usually when these sorts of things happen it’s because something important is going on that only the king and his esteemed generals know about. 

It peeks Castiel’s interest even if there is seemingly no way of finding out. That doesn’t dissuade him, however, and he keeps his eyes and ears ready. 

Castiel’s had his uniform washed and cleaned twice over for the ball, his silver bands polished along with his boots that have also had the dirt scraped from the very soles. 

He’s never been in the ball room before although they have passed it a few times and from glimpses here and there it’s quite a large space, enough to fits hundreds of people. 

The last few days, he’s noticed a few more nobleman and noblewomen around the castle, evidently here in advance for it. 

Dean appears excited – Leda will be coming and from what he gathers, the prince genuinely enjoys the balls. 

After making certain that his uniform is adequate, not really bothering with too much inspection, Castiel waits out in the dining hall. They ate earlier, Dean having told him that while there is food and drink there, the guards may not feast upon them. Hermana even surprised Dean by personally bringing up his favourite meal for dinner – she must know how much he enjoys the balls too.

Dean finally exits his chambers, adorning a much more immaculate uniform than his usual, his golden bands practically shining. Dean sweeps his eyes up and down Castiel’s own attire. “You brush up a lot better without dirt under your nails. Although…” Dean steps into his personal space, hands reaching out to tug his jerkin down straighter. Dean smiles, impressed with his own work before his eyes trail up to Castiel’s cheek.

His bruise from Dean’s punishment is almost gone now even though Castiel can still sense Dean’s worry over it. And on the side of his head, the gash is healing well too. 

Dean steps away, shoulders held back, head held high. A prince, Castiel thinks. The human prince. 

The _human_ prince, he reminds himself.

The son of King Winchester. Of the king that tried to eradicate all of his species. It feels as if he’s had a bucket of cold water poured over him. 

Dean isn’t just a prince. He isn’t tripping over his feet for just _any_ prince.

It’s as if he’s forgotten himself – as if Dean has swept him up and tangled him in his web. And Castiel hasn’t been able to see out of that web until now. 

Until he remembers who he is. And who Dean is. And how this is the worst thing that could have possibly happened – something he never could have predicted. 

Dean smiles towards him. “I’ll lead the way.”

Castiel’s heart pulls in his direction. He has to stop. He _has to_. 

Dean’s eyes crinkle with joy. 

And yet, Dean is the only one here keeping him from drowning.

And he thinks, suddenly, the tension in his chest realeasing, that perhaps he’s the strength Castiel needs to get through this. 

Even if it will break him in the end.

 

______________________________________

 

Black, braided hair contrasted against pale skin is the first thing Dean’s eyes catch as he moves towards the table filled with rich delicacies and sparkling clean glasses ready to be filled with the most expensive wines. 

“Why that is no way for a lady to eat.” Leda turns on her heels, unimpressed. 

She bows, lifting her dress by the fabric. “I promise you, Your Highness,” she coos, “one day I’ll have your head.”

Dean chuckles, lifting her hand to place a light kiss there. Leda scoffs, picking a fine slice of cheese from the table and biting into it. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Leda’s eyes flick behind him towards Castiel and he feels a strange twist in his stomach.

“Castiel, it is so lovely to see you again.” Castiel nods, stiff and he must be remembering the time he danced with Leda – and most likely hoping it doesn’t happen again. Dean feels guilty for that, making him hold hands and be so close to a stranger.

“As it is so lovely for me to see you again.” The musicians start up and couples flock to the floor. Dean holds out his hand for Leda who takes it in her own. 

They make their way to the edge, Leda always too embarrassed to be the centre of attention. Dean never says anything, however, as every day goes by he feels the same way too. He supposes it has to do with his father shaming him more and more with every moon that passes by. 

“So, how have you been?” Leda asks softly. “I heard about what happened at Narla. I wished that you never had to go through that.” Dean lets out a deep breath. 

“It’s fine. I am fine. Castiel was able to save me before anything could happen--”

“Before? I heard you got _stabbed_.” 

“Yes, yes, okay, I got stabbed but it really isn’t as bad as you probably think.”

Leda flicks her eyes away. “I would know. You always make things out to be smaller than they are.”

Dean sighs. “Leda--”

“Okay, okay. So, Castiel saved you and you were _fine,_ ” Leda punctuates with a disapproving eyebrow. “What about everything else? How are you and Castiel getting along?”

Dean’s eyes find Castiel at the edge of the room, standing to the side of the long dining table in conversation with the young guard, Emery. Emery is still speaking with him when Castiel’s eyes meet Dean’s as if sensing him watching. 

He holds his gaze as they move around the room and remembers the awkward way Castiel had looked in Leda’s grip as they danced at the festival. 

He wonders if he would be more comfortable in Dean’s own. 

Dean flicks his eyes away, shaking his thoughts from his head. He doesn’t understand why he thought that. It’s only because he knows Castiel is much more comfortable with Dean’s touch than anyone else’s. Because they are friends now. Or something of the sort. And Castiel trusts him after the time they’ve spent together.

“Dean? I’ve lost you, haven’t I? Who’s the lady that’s catching your eye?” Leda cranes her head around to sweep her gaze across the ball room as Dean huffs. 

“No, I – Castiel and I have been getting along better than ever.” Leda’s eyes light up.

“Oh, that’s wonderful to hear. I knew you’d come around.” Dean glares at her until she laughs and pulls him away from the dance floor. 

“Dean!” He turns at the sound of his brother’s voice and smiles at the sight of Sam dressed in his fresh clothes. It’s not that he hasn’t seen his brother in formal attire before but he’s constantly growing now and every day he becomes more and more of a man – and he knows his mother would be proud, as is he. 

As if reading his thoughts, Leda speaks, “Oh, Sam. You are growing more handsome by the second.”

Sam grins, clearly not enough of a man yet to blush under the compliment of a beautiful woman. They dissolve into conversation and Dean feels Castiel’s presence at his side. 

He appears bored, gazing over to the musicians. “Not enjoying it, are you?”

“Enjoying it as much as one can with the duty to stand straight and watch after you all night.” 

Dean’s eyes widen. “You want to dance?” Castiel’s eyes appear to widen in alarm for an instant before they return to his usual blank stare.

“No,” is all he says and Dean notices he is stiffer than before. 

“You do?” He doesn’t respond, eyes pointedly resting on the musicians. Suddenly, the thought comes to him that Castiel is ashamed of his desire as he cannot fully commit to the suggestion with his fear of intimacy. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Dean says softly and Castiel eyes are sharply on him. “If I tell Leda--”

“I’m not – I do not wish to dance, Dean. You are mistaken.” Dean eyes him warily but doesn’t say anything more.

The night goes on, Dean speaking to Sam and Leda mostly but also being swept up by other ladies asking for a dance. They giggle and blush, flirting with him not so subtly and naturally he flirts back but every time, his gaze always finds Castiel – who in turn, is always watching, even if he tries to flick his eyes away before Dean catches him.

His father makes an entrance and an announcement towards the end of the night and by the time he does, Dean is ready for sleep but continues to indulge the ladies that approach him. Leda, thankfully, noticing his exhaustion, sweeps him away and with a swift farewell, Castiel and Dean make their way back to their rooms.

They bid farewell to each other but Dean’s gaze lingers on Castiel’s retreating form as he makes his way to his own personal chamber.

He tries not to think too heavily about it and eventually, once curled up in his own bed, exhaustion pulls him under.

 

______________________________________

 

_He’s watching the stars, Castiel sitting beside him, telling him about the religion of one of the smaller cultures in Yeoji. Dean tries to focus but the words are only a buzz to his ears._

_What he can focus on is the shape of his jaw and the curve of his lips as they part around each word._

_He turns to Dean, as though he has just asked a question. Dean opens his mouth to ask him to repeat himself when Castiel’s hand on his cheek cuts him off._

_They’re standing now and the night sky is no longer above them. It is day and they’re at the fields where they train. Except taking in his surroundings there is no castle, walls or forest in sight. Only endless, rolling hills and the fresh green grass of summer._

_Castiel’s hand is warm on his cheek and Dean feels something stir in his stomach._

_Castiel mouths something but Dean struggles to hear. And sensing it’s something important, he panics._

_“I can’t hear you, Cas. What are you saying? What are you--”_

_“Dean,” Castiel says fondly, his eyes filled with emotion. “Ask me to dance.”_

_And then, Castiel’s lips are upon his and Dean is reaching for him – grasping at his waist to pull him closer. He drags a hand through Castiel’s hair, drawing a rough breath from him and the heat is pooling in his stomach, his skin burning and he needs more, wants more--_

_“Cas,” he breathes and--_

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel is sitting by the window, breathing in and out as the sun starts to rise. He woke up earlier than usual this morning and is already dressed and ready to head out for training. 

He pulls on his boots and brushing his uniform down, heads for the door. He draws back the large curtains in the dining hall, the light flooding in before he heads for Dean’s chambers.

Opening the door, he immediately notices that Dean isn’t at his desk as he usually is. And a glance at his bed shows that he isn’t there either, although his bed isn’t made as normal, the sheets thrown back hastily.

“Dean,” Castiel calls out, not wanting to interrupt him if he’s relieving himself in the chamber pots. 

He hears scuffling and cursing coming from his bathing room before, “Can’t you give me some privacy! Go wait out in the hall!” Dean yells, the anger clear but Castiel can sense a hint of panic in his voice too.

“Of course, Dean. My apologies,” he responds, quickly stepping out. His brows furrow in concern but he waits patiently for the prince.

After a few long minutes, he finally appears dressed in his trousers but only his undershirt, looking incredibly pale. “Are you alright, Dean?”

Dean swallows, eyes trained on the floor in front of Castiel. “I need you to fetch the maids to clean up. I’ve been ill.” 

Castiel’s eyes widen. “Of course, Dean. Did you want me to do anything else?” 

Dean swallows again, eyes flittering around the floor but never meeting Castiel’s eyes. “Keep your distance. I wouldn’t want you catching whatever it is that I have,” he says, voice strained. “And call off everything for today.”

Without any more instruction, Dean slams the door shut.

Castiel stands frozen for a long minute before heading out to grab the first person he sees – a maid that happens to be on her way back to the servant’s quarters – and passes on what Dean needs.

The rest of the day goes by slowly, Castiel watching as maids come and go with cleaning supplies and even Hermana personally with soups for breakfast, lunch and dinner. At one point a doctor is summoned but pointedly refused and leaves hastily. 

Dean never emerges enough for Castiel to speak with him and although he understands Dean’s reasoning for keeping away from him, he can’t help but feel wounded. He wishes he could be in there, helping him. Dean himself has helped him enough times – he should repay the favour. He knows he won’t be as good as Dean – he doesn’t know how to comfort others very well – but it would at least be something. 

Time must escape him because once Castiel realises Dean isn’t coming out to bid him goodnight, it’s well past midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who missed it, I was unfortunately sick all week from the first new meds but I've discontinued them as they just seem to not be working out at all and I was able to finally get the chapter up even though it was a little over the weekly schedule, so my apologies. The next chapter will hopefully be up in a weeks time so Thursday ~8/9pm AEST but I'll update here if it's not! Thank you all again for your lovely comments! They really help and encourage me <3
> 
> And if you want to find out other ways you can support my writing, check out this post [here on my tumblr](http://angvlicmish.tumblr.com/post/175846406461/hey-everyone-hope-youre-all-doing-well-i)! Even just reblogging it would mean the world to me! <3
> 
> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed!
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	10. Chapter 10

It’s begins the next morning. Dean is…distracted. He barely hears anything Castiel says and continues to avoid his eyes as much as possible. He’s feeling better, he says. But Castiel knows that there is something wrong. It’s not difficult to see. 

They train with bow and arrow as soon as the sun is far enough above the horizon and Castiel hopes it will help the prince concentrate but all it does is make him frustrated. He doesn’t welcome any of Castiel’s adjustments – sometimes even physically shoving him off – and complaining that he has it all under control. Not even one of the arrows hit the bullseye throughout the entire session. But by the end of it, Castiel doesn’t even care.

The only distraction he does get from Dean’s frustrating mood is when they sit down for one of Dean’s – usually boring – meetings. However, today is anything but boring. 

“So, as all of you know the spring equinox ball was pushed back as matters were brought to us and they need to be given the upmost attention,” a general begins, face grim. “For those of you who haven’t heard, word came from Lithos that travellers passing through had claimed sightings of angels near the Ellwood Forest.” Castiel’s eyes widen minutely before he’s able to clear his features of any emotion. But inside, his chest squeezes tight. 

In front of him, Dean barely reacts to the news and Castiel knows his mind is far away from this meeting. 

“We are in communication with the mayor of Lithos to acquire more details and as soon as we do, we will be sending half a dozen of our most trusted guards to scout the area.” It’s easy to understand what the town is doing now – even after their friendship with the angels and their riots against the king after the invasion, they angels cannot help them anymore. They must show in any way possible that they would do anything for their king to hopefully regain his respect.

“The guards have already been picked and informed of their duty. For now, however, we must not spare a word about this to anyone. It could be anything from a trick or a couple of travellers pissing themselves at a rustling of a bush.” The men nod, Dean joining them.

“And on the off chance that there are signs of angels and our entrusted guards are able to find one, they will take it prisoner and haul it back here for questioning as it could have the whereabouts of any others in hiding. As we know many angels have wings small enough to hide under their clothes after generations of mating with humans. But a sighting at the Ellwood Forest could suggest many angels with much larger wings are hidden there – having nowhere else to hide. It is something we must deal with swiftly and quietly. The king will have no issue serving punishments for those who cause chaos in the castle and cities after leaking what we have discussed here.”

The meeting is adjourned after discussing a few less important matters and Dean is up and out of his seat before any of the other men in the room. Castiel closes his eyes, still processing the information he’s just received before following the prince. 

 

______________________________________

 

It’s been three days since he woke from his dream and with panic and fear overwhelming him, he’d throw up all over his bathing room floor. 

He sits at his desk now, well past midnight and stares into the dark. He’s not sure it’s all caught up to him yet. It’s as if he still hasn’t accepted what happened. What he dreamt. What he, in his own dreams, had wanted.

He starts to feel sick again, nausea washing over him in waves every time he thinks about it. The fear grips his heart and for the last three days, hasn’t let go. And every time he tells himself – screams at himself – to stop thinking about it, to wipe it from his mind – it’s there vividly in his memory closing in on him.

Whenever Castiel touches him at training, he finds his throat restricting and heart pounding so hard that his head throbs with the sound. 

He thinks of Charlie. It only took him a day or so. But it’s not the comfort he needs – even if he feels incredibly selfish and awful thinking it. Because he knows she can never be openly happy with the person she truly wants. But at brothels, men pay double the coin for two women to lay together for his pleasure. It is common and not looked down upon – only when the women do it themselves without a man’s permission.

But even at brothels, for two men--

He clenches his jaw so hard, he can feel his teeth scraping against one another. He doesn’t want to think about it. 

He doesn’t even understand it. 

He loves women. He loves them as much as the next man. He loves their sweet curves and soft breasts and thighs clenched around him.

Maybe it’s because he’s lonely. Because he hasn’t lay with anyone in a while – he hasn’t been touched like that in forever. 

In the furthest corners of his mind, he already knows that’s not why.

In the end, after having not even slept at all, Dean finally dozes as the sun rises. 

In the end, it’s the angels he thinks of and their lifestyle and culture that they look down upon. That _he_ looks down upon.

In the end, hatred spilling into his heart at the thought of them – at the thought that those disgusting creatures could ever be a source of comfort for him – he cries quietly into his hands, wishing his mother were here to hold him.  

 

______________________________________

 

“You must get up. It’s already an hour past dawn.”

“Who said you gave the orders again?” Dean says mockingly. Castiel clenches his jaw. 

“I don’t know what happened that made you so…insufferable and childish but whatever it is, you cannot take it out on me.” Dean glares at him from behind his desk. He looks incredibly tired, as if he hasn’t slept one wink which might be the reason for why he’s even more infuriating this morning. The last few days have been enough to get on Castiel nerves, with the ignoring and bad attitude which is always directed towards himself, but a third day with this--

Castiel takes a deep breath. “If you do not want to train this morning then at least tell me instead of having me run around in circles trying to get an answer out of you.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine. No, I don’t want to train this morning. Now leave me be before I yell for the guards.” Castiel startles at his words and he can see a flash of guilt in Dean’s eyes. 

“As you wish. But we will be training this evening whether you want to or not. Your Highness,” Castiel spits, before slamming the door behind him.

He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He’s tried hard to reflect on everything that he’s done in the past few days that might deserve this but he can’t recall anything. 

Or maybe there is one thing – the way he’d snapped at Dean after asking him about how he wanted to dance. He didn’t mean to get angry but Dean had caught him off guard and he had panicked. The only thing he’d gotten wrong was that he didn’t want to dance with just _anybody_. 

But it’s certainly not enough to deserve this. He wonders if it’s something that’s happened between Dean and his father even if they haven’t seen him since the ball. 

Nothing adds up. He hates it.

But most of all, he hates how he’s losing Dean to whatever this is. He’d only just accepted his feelings for the man and what they may mean – how they could jeopardise everything and yet he’d let them in. 

And now this. 

He should be used to it by now. The cruelty of this world. He can’t keep one good thing. Not even one.

After all, Dean was the only good thing left. 

Castiel lifts his chin. No matter. He will continue on, as always.

 

______________________________________

 

Dean whines at training and even though he’s incessantly frustrated and wants to drop everything and leave, Castiel pushes through. Other than the constant complaining, he can feel Dean’s mind slipping again, his eyes wandering and he isn’t half as good in fighting Castiel as he should be.

At one point, the prince’s mind has wandered so far that he isn’t even facing Castiel, his back angled toward him and certainly doesn’t hear when Castiel tells him to lift his sword. Castiel growls at the back of his throat, stepping forward and knocking the sword from Dean’s hand with his own. 

Castiel shoves him hard in the back until the prince stumbles forward, eyes suddenly back on him. 

“What are you--”

“Someone’s going to stab you in the back one day and I won’t be there to stop them.” Castiel drops his sword to the ground, shaking his head. “And though you may think otherwise, the world’s not going to stop turning when you die, Dean.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels guilty. But he is just so tired of Dean taking whatever this is out on him.

Dean’s eyes fall to the grass, his hands clenched by his side and for a moment Castiel thinks he might swing at him. But he only walks away, mounting his horse and taking off towards the castle before Castiel has even thought to follow him.

 

______________________________________

 

Another ball comes upon them only a quarter of a moon after the last one. It’s a much smaller ball, however, only involving the generals and nobles – and their respective families – that hold land under the king. 

Dean’s eager for it. This is his chance.

Leda, much to his discontent isn’t here, having other commitments at the manor as her father and mother enjoy their time here. It’s a disappointment but definitely doesn’t put a hold on his plans.

There are many other lovely ladies here tonight and as soon as the music begins, many are already lining up to dance. 

The first lady is beautiful, her smile wide and cheeks red but her eyes are too blue. 

The second has soft curves and plump lips but her hair is too dark. 

The fifth has a small scar on her shoulder. 

The eighth only spares him small smiles, eyes narrowing as he attempts to make her laugh. 

The ninth is perfect. Her hair is light brown, matching the hazel of her eyes. She’s flirtatious and forward, her smile wide and mischievous. 

He doesn’t care about the rest of the ball once he finds her, leading her out into the gardens. She grins as he leans in, hands resting at the small of her back, her chest pressed up against his. 

Her lips are soft, her hands tangling in his hair and down over his shoulders. Her touch is confident and when he pulls away there’s a glint in her eye. He can feel his body heating under her hands but it’s not like it used to be. Something dwells in his gut, holding him back from giving himself over fully.

Shuffling to their left has Dean pulling away. Castiel stands many yards away, turned to the side, eyes carefully positioned away. Dean swallows, rage bubbling up in his chest. 

“You mind lending us some privacy here, Cas?” Dean says, straining himself to keep his voice calm. Castiel looks over to him, eyes flicking quickly towards the woman standing in front of him before nodding and stepping around the hedge and out of sight. 

It’s then that he notices the rising beat of his heart. “Who was he?” the lady asks, and Dean realises he didn’t even catch her name.

“Just my guard. Don’t worry about him.” She smiles, leaning up to capture his lips once more. 

Her hands are everywhere this time, trailing over and up his chest until they slowly trail down, down – Dean’s hand barely having moved from her back – and suddenly, panic rips through him and he can’t. 

He grabs her wrist before she can reach his waist, stepping backwards. “Is there something wrong?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

He shakes his head, clearing his throat. “No, I just – I need to go.” Her eyes fall but Dean barely notices. “Let me escort you back to the ball before I leave.”

He kisses her on the hand after she bows and they part ways, Dean walking straight into the hall and out of the ballroom. He suddenly feels short of breath and especially so when he hears those familiar, light footsteps behind him. 

Dean enters their dining hall and reaches for the buttons of his jerkin near his throat, ripping them open to allow him to breathe easier but it doesn’t seem to help. The doors close behind him and suddenly he’s right there beside him, a hand hesitantly reaching out towards him.

“Are you alright, Dean?” He has to squeeze his eyes shut at the concern in Castiel’s voice. 

“No, I’m not--” Dean’s chest threatens to crush him, the gripping becoming almost unbearable.

“Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

A frustrated noise slips out from the back of his throat and Dean slams a fist on the table. “You, Cas! You happened! You couldn’t give me one moment of privacy? You couldn’t just wait inside for one fucking--”

“My duty is to keep you safe and letting you wander alone in the gardens is--”

“I don’t care what your fucking duty is!” Dean yells and Castiel flinches, stepping backwards. The grip on his heart gets tighter. “I can’t fucking breathe with you around me all the time!”

He strides towards his room, slamming the door behind him. He makes his way straight to his bathing room, collapsing onto his knees in front of his wooden bucket of water. He splashes his face and rubs at this throat but it doesn’t help – nothing helps.

He stands his chest caving inwards and the tears finally spill over the edge as he kicks the bucket as hard as he can across the room. It splinters and water floods everywhere but he pays it no mind. He slides to the floor, back against the wall, the sobs finally wracking from his body. 

He trembles all over, curling in on himself as he cries into his dark, empty room. 

And despite everything, it’s not his mother who he wishes were here to hold him in his arms. 

It’s the very man who unbeknownst to him, stands in the same place he left him, eyes clouded with tears of his own. 

 

______________________________________

 

He only sleeps because he’s too exhausted to stay conscious for any longer. And when he does wake, it’s well after dawn, and Castiel still hasn’t come for him.

He lies in his bed, not wanting to get up. He thinks about it – about everything – for a long time. 

It’s out now. All of the emotion that he’d been shoving down until it almost suffocated him. He knows there’s something wrong with him. Something that can’t be fixed. He wonders what his mother would think of him. She was friends with the angels after spending much time with them doing affairs. Friends with them after knowing the things they did. And even though they betrayed her in the end, he wonders if she was accepting of their ways. 

He wonders if she would accept him. As he is now. Broken and terrified. 

But the scariest thought of all is one that’s been lingering at the back of his mind for days. What if Castiel feels the same?

He’s tried to push it out of his mind but it’s inevitable. He ponders it now for hours after he’s woken, unmoving in his bed until the hunger is too much to ignore and he quickly gets dressed and makes his way into the dining hall. 

Castiel sits there, hunched over a book he borrowed from the library. He doesn’t look up but Dean can see the dark circles under his eyes. “I didn’t know when you would wake so breakfast hasn’t been ordered. I can do that now if you want,” he says, flipping a page. There are no traces of anger or annoyance in his voice. He only sounds tired. And if anything, there is a hint of sadness.

And it’s as if Dean’s been gutted. “Cas, I’m sorry,” he breathes out, desperation clawing its way into his throat. Castiel’s shoulders slump and his hands clench around the pages of the book. “I didn’t mean what I said, I--”

“It’s fine, Dean. I understand if I am not the… _easiest_ person to be around and that at times I can be uncomfortable--”

“No, Cas, it’s not about you.” Except it is. Everything is about Castiel. He can barely go one second without thinking of him. “It…it was about my father,” he says, because it’s the only thing that might make sense – that might be believeable.

Castiel meets his eyes and Dean knows he doesn’t quite trust him. “Dean…” he breathes out before standing from his seat and heading towards the doors that leads into the hall. and now all he can hear over and over in his head is Castiel’s voice – _I can’t do this, I can’t do this._ And he panics because _he_ can’t do this. Not without him. Not alone.

Dean strides up to him, grabbing his hand before he can open the door in front of him. Castiel’s palm is warm against his own and Dean feels his heart jump in his chest. Castiel turns, glancing towards their hands and a blink before he pulls away Dean catches the way his cheeks flush and his eyes flash with pain.

His heart jumps again. Could it be real? Was that longing in his eyes or is Dean seeing things now?

Could Castiel feel the same?

“I was only going to send for breakfast,” Castiel mumbles, hands clenched into fists at his sides and Dean embarrassingly ducks his head. 

“Oh, I--” He swallows. “I thought you were leaving.”

Surprise and sadness flash across Castiel’s eyes one after the other. “I’m not leaving.”

Dean nods, stepping away. He ponders for a moment before a plan flashes in his mind. “I know these last few days haven’t been the best, so if you want, after the meeting we can visit the lake again. And I won’t make you swim if you don’t want to.”

Castiel’s lips quirk to the side, voice soft as he says, “That would be nice.”

 

______________________________________

 

The meeting runs smoothly. The entrusted guards will be leaving for the Ellwood Forest tomorrow, stopping in Lithos on the way. Dean doesn’t really believe what they’re saying. They’ve had rumours like this many times before and they have all been false. Or at least, they’ve never been able to find anything.

The sightings used to give him hope. When he was young and naïve – that perhaps it meant they could find his mother – that she was still alive out there. 

Now he is older. He knows better. 

The guards will be riding on horseback and if everything goes well, they should take less than half a moon to get there. 

Once the meeting is over and the matters are settled, Dean and Castiel saddle up their own horses in the stables and ride off toward the forest. 

He usually relishes the quiet but today it only means that he can practically hear the thumping of his heart inside of his skull. Guilt and shame war in his chest accompanied by the tiniest sliver of hope. 

If he can’t find anything to prove that Castiel feels the same then…well, he doesn’t want to even think about how disgusted Castiel might be by him if he ever found out what he had thought – what he had wanted.

And that if he did, Castiel might leave – might hold it over Dean’s head until he has to let the man go before his secret can get out. But he can’t let that happen. He can’t be alone again.

The forest is peaceful today, damp and cool with rain from overnight and only snow here and there that hasn’t yet melted. 

The lake is the same as always. Blissful. He used to worry that someone else would stumble across it and destroy its natural beauty. But no one ever seems to come this way and even if they did, it’s incredibly hard to find. 

When he first found it with his mother, they made markings in the trees so that they could always find their way back. The markings have long since faded and the only map Dean has is the one in his mind.

Dismounting his horse and tying it loosely to a tree, Dean flicks his eyes towards Castiel. He is staring out at the lake as if it’s his first time seeing it. Dean still feels the same way, except in this moment, he can only stare at Castiel. 

Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before beginning to divest himself of his clothes. Castiel doesn’t say anything and soon enough he hears the tell-tale sign of Castiel doing the same.

His chest squeezes tight with anticipation. He neatly piles his clothes and boots on the ground before wading out into the water. It’s still piercingly cold but already much warmer than last time with the spring equinox closing in and the midday sun beating down on the shimmering water. 

A long minute later and he hears Castiel diving out beside him. The water slides over his skin and as he finds his feet in the sand, Dean gazes at the way the droplets stick to the smooth column of his neck and the slim beginning of his chest. 

“It’s a lot warmer today,” Dean says, having nothing else to fill the silence. 

Castiel nods, shooting him the smallest of smiles. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen Castiel’s real smile – one that isn’t mocking or a mere quirk of lips. All he’s sure of is he wants to see it – wants to be the one that makes him do it. “May I ask you something?”

Dean nods, taking the chance to wade closer to Castiel. “Of course.”

Castiel chews at his bottom lip before asking, “Why does your father resent you so much?” Dean startles at the question. He didn’t expect it. And his throat constricts as his eyes fall to the water. But something inside of him releases. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, Dean, I understand,” he adds quietly.

“No, it’s fine. I…” Dean glances up to meet Castiel’s eyes, open and free of judgement. He’s never spoken to anyone about this. Dimarus and Heymon and many of the generals know – they were there to witness his father’s rage after that night. “It was a little while after we found out the angel’s plan to invade us. My father, mother, Sam and myself were moved into a more secure chambers all together in the centre of the castle.” He pauses, inhaling deeply.

“You don’t have to,” Castiel says.

Dean shakes his head. “I want to.” I want someone to know, he thinks. _I want it to be you_. “The soldiers had already been sent down to Iowan to go to war. I was scared – terrified. I asked my mother if she could read to me. Of course, she said yes and with her own personal guard, Ferrant, they left for her own chambers to go retrieve the book I had asked for.” It was the very book of poems that now sits on his shelf – the one his mother gave to him when he was young. It usually resided in his own room but a few nights before her capture – before they had moved into a secure chamber – his mother had left the book in her own chambers after reading to him one day.

Dean opens his mouth to continue but the words get stuck in his throat. Castiel’s eyes tell him that he knows the rest of the story. Just like everyone does – after taking too long to come back, his father and a few other guards had gone in search of her only to find her missing and Ferrant, face ashen as he lay dead on the floor with no physical wound to show for it. The window was open, curtains blowing in the wind. He was spared a day before his father had told him all of this.

“I was only a boy,” Dean starts, the sadness overwhelming him. “But my father blamed me anyway.” He was given no responsibility after that. Until his twenty-second birthday when Dimarus convinced his father to allow Dean to choose a new personal guard. 

In his father’s eyes, he’d failed at that too. And now he can’t do anything. Can’t even find the prisoners who hurt Castiel and punish them for what they did. 

Nothing.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dean,” Castiel says hesitantly. “You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.” Dean nods, shaking away the emotions that threaten to cloud him over. 

“It’s fine.” And although, it will never truly be fine – it’s something that will stick with him for as long as he lives – he has had a decade to seek closure. And he has – to the furthest extent that he can. He shakes his head. “How are you? Your wounds? Are they healing well?” Dean says, subsequently concluding this conversation. 

“Yes, they’re much better.” The gash along the side of Castiel’s head is only a small cut now and the bruise from Dean’s own fist has all but faded – the only sign that he ever hurt him, a tiny cut that hasn’t yet healed.

He feels the urge inside of him to reach for Castiel’s face again, to take him in his hand and instead of resisting like the past few days, he lets himself. He moves slowly, lifting his hand from the water to give Castiel a chance to recoil away if he wants but he doesn’t move an inch, allowing Dean’s hand to caress his cool skin – heating beneath his palm.

Dean runs his thumb over the small cut, eyes observing the blue ones in front of him as they stare pointedly at his chest. He only needs a small sign, something to reassure what he already hopes. 

He breathes in. “I’m sorry I ever hurt you.” Castiel’s eyes are wide with emotion as he meets Dean’s own and he can see the way his chest is rising and falling heavily in the water. 

As he brushes his thumb over Castiel’s cut again, he allows his palm to scrape over his lips. Castiel’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes flicking down to Dean’s own.

Dean’s heart thumps in his chest.

Castiel’s throat bobs, his eyes fluttering closed as he steps away and out of Dean’s grasp. “And I the same,” he says but Dean barely hears it.

His heart thumps louder. 

Castiel keeps his distance after that but Dean can feel his eyes on him every once in a while, and the pink on Castiel’s cheeks is always evident when Dean glances over. And it’s torment. 

They change into their clothes quickly, Dean having promised to meet Sam for lunch. But even then, with the chatter all around him and Sam’s excited smiles as he tells a story from this morning, Dean can’t focus on anything except for the man who sits across the table from him.

And he knows, that Castiel is the same.

And knowing it, he can’t wait any longer. He’ll do it tonight, as soon as they’re alone. 

Hope rises in his chest and he knows that if he’s wrong, it will crush him. There’s no going back from this.

 

______________________________________

 

The day drags on tirelessly. All Castiel wants is to shut himself up in his chamber and fall into a deep slumber. Anything to get him away from Dean. It’s too much now. All he can feel is Dean’s palm brushing his lips, the heat on his skin despite the cold. 

And he knows he’s tricking himself now – convincing himself that there is something there when there isn’t. 

All he needs to do is last until midnight. Only a few hours to go. He can get through this.

They dine with Sam and Mervyn once more at dinner for no reason in particular. Castiel struggles to focus on what the young prince is saying and only eats when his stomach isn’t knotted with shame. 

But soon enough, dinner is over and they are leaving for their chambers.

Not too long now, Castiel thinks. Not too long until midnight. 

He’s so focused on placing one foot in front of the other that he doesn’t see the woman walking over to them. He recognises her from the ball the other night – the lady Dean had taken out into the gardens. 

“Your Highness,” she bows, a smile on her face. 

“My lady, you’re still here,” Dean asks, eyebrows pinched. 

“My father is still dealing with the king over some affairs. We will be leaving tomorrow,” she says, stepping into his personal space and resting a hand on his arm. 

Castiel grinds his teeth, jealousy rising in him. He will never have what she has. Dean chuckles lightly, eyes averting to Castiel’s and flicking over the entirety of his face and the stiffness of his shoulders.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you,” Dean says, taking the lady’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, “But I must be going now.” The lady’s smile fades but she bows once more and wishes him farewell. 

As they continue down the hall, Castiel asks impulsively, “Do you not want to spend the night with her? You seemed upset over not being able to do so at the ball.”

Dean doesn’t respond but falters in his step momentarily. He picks up his pace and Castiel follows after him. The halls outside their chambers are mostly empty and it’s dark as they enter their dining hall. Castiel closes the doors behind him and as he turns around, Dean is grabbing the chair from the end of the table and dragging it towards the door. 

Castiel steps out of his way as he jams it up against the handle, locking them in. “Dean, what are you--”

His words are cut off when Dean grabs Castiel’s uniform with two rough hands and shoves him backwards until his thighs are hitting the table – one hand flying up to grip at Dean’s clothes as the other falls backward onto the table for balance. 

Dean’s face is close to his, breaths hot and shallow. His eyes are cast down, not meeting Castiel’s. “Dean,” he rasps out, heart beating rapidly. “What are you doing?” Light from the moon casts over the sharp lines of Dean’s face. He shudders out a breath.

“Tell me it’s not just me. Tell me it’s not just me, Cas,” he whispers but his voice is rough and pleading – desperate – and Castiel feels his throat constricting, his heart heavy in his chest. 

This can’t be happening. This isn’t what he thinks it is – Dean’s not--

“Please, Cas,” Dean trembles now, lips quivering and hands shaking. When he glances up, his green eyes are shining with hope – with vulnerability. 

His eyes fall to Castiel’s lips and it hits him all at once – this is real.

His chest caves inwards. 

“Dean, I – it’s not just you.” A broken, strangled sound falls from Dean’s lips and a tear falls down his cheek. Only then does Castiel realise the emotion rising in his own throat, tears pricking behind his eyes. All this time…

Dean pulls him impossibly closer until their chests are touching. He leans down slightly, their foreheads meeting and they breathe into the dead of the night. Their breaths mingle together, warm on each other’s skin as their eyes finally meet once more. Dean’s eyes flick down to his mouth again and Castiel finds his eyes falling to the curve of Dean’s own, heart thudding as Dean’s lips inch forward slowly – so slowly, until finally they are on his. 

Castiel’s eyes flutter closed, breath catching in his throat as he clutches tighter at Dean’s uniform.

They break away to let themselves breathe and it rises on his tongue suddenly – _we can’t do this. I can’t do this._

But a hand is tangling in his hair and Dean’s lips are there, gentle and warm – growing rougher and rougher with every breath. Dean’s body pushes hard against his and his stomach pulls tight, heat flooding his veins. 

His fingers curl in Dean’s uniform and when Dean’s lips part from his own once more, he shudders out, “Dean, we can’t – we can’t – _Dean_.” But Dean is overwhelming – his hands, his lips, his warmth – and he knows he can’t stop. 

The hand gripped in his own uniform tugs him away from the table, roughly pulling him into the prince’s chambers. Dean barely gives him time to breathe before he’s slamming the door shut and pushing him up against it. 

“Cas,” he exhales against his lips, as he pushes a leg in between Castiel’s thighs, one hand curling into his hair and the other gripping at his lower back. 

Castiel’s chest heaves and he only has time to grip one hand in Dean’s uniform and curl the other tightly around his neck before Dean is crushing their bodies together. He feels the heat between his legs and the tight coil in his stomach as Dean hitches his thigh upwards.

A breath punches out of him and he pants heavily into Dean’s neck, lips wet from Dean’s own.

“I don’t – I’ve never--”

Dean shakes his head, cheeks flushed and eyes wide and dark with want. “I’ve never either,” he says, voice hoarse. 

Castiel swallows, trying to catch his breath as Dean’s fingers tug at his hair. “No, I’ve never – with anyone.”

Dean stutters then, stopping in his tracks to stare at Castiel, mouth parted and chest rising heavily. Castiel’s cheeks burn with humiliation but Dean only leans in, capturing his lips gently. His hand trails from his hair down to brush over Castiel’s jaw.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers into the dark before pressing forward. Dean’s hand begins to trail over his clothed chest as he kisses Castiel hard, tongue finding his way in between his lips, and arousal pools in the bottom of Castiel’s stomach as he twitches between his thighs. 

Dean’s hands slide down to rest just above his belt and his eyes find Castiel’s, a silent, careful question there. He doesn’t want to push Castiel – doesn’t want to hurt him. But Castiel only nods, body hardening under Dean’s and he can’t stop now. Can’t back out. Because he wants this. He wants Dean.

Dean ducks his head down, lips mouthing at his jaw as he blindly unbuckles Castiel’s belt, letting it fall loudly to the floor along with his swords, not even caring that someone may hear. And then Dean is pulling his undershirt out of his pants and panic jolts through him – as if his mind has finally caught up to his body – and Castiel’s hand is gripping Dean’s own before it can even graze the bare skin of his stomach. The thought of Dean’s hands on his skin, on his scars – it’s too much. 

Dean’s eyes flash with longing and disappointment but when Castiel lets his wrist go, his hand falls to Castiel’s trousers instead. And somehow, the fear eases. His breaths are jagged and searing hot against Castiel’s jaw as his hands fumble with the buttons of his trousers until they’re completely undone. 

Dean’s eyes flick up to Castiel’s own. His throat bobs, swallowing around the anxiety that sits there but finally nods and Dean surges forward, lips crashing into his own as he shoves his hand down past Castiel’s trousers and undergarments until his hand is hot and hard on his twitching cock. 

Castiel arches into Dean, biting his lip hard as his body trembles. Dean palms at his flushed cock, swiping his thumb through the wetness at the tip making Castiel’s thighs tremble as he leans back heavily against the door, a small whimper sounding at the back of his throat. Dean grunts, hips thrusting up involuntarily into Castiel’s as he gathers the wetness from Castiel’s cock in his hand before taking Castiel from his confines and beginning to stroke him in earnest.

Cheeks flushed, Castiel buries his head into Dean’s neck, one arm still curled tightly around his shoulders as his other reaches over and down to purchase at the clothes at Dean’s back. Dean leans on him, pressing hard until Castiel can feel the outline of his own hard cock resting against his thigh. 

Dean thrusts into him, faltering in his stroking and a soft moan falls from his lips. Castiel pants wetly into Dean’s shoulder as his own hips jerk forward, his legs quivering beneath him and if it wasn’t for Dean’s hand on his back and Castiel’s own grip on him, he would fall. 

Dean’s hand on him quickens, thumb pushing into the slit at his head and Castiel’s head lolls back against the door, biting his own lip hard as the heat builds and builds in his stomach. 

“Cas,” Dean breathes, voice low and rough. “I wanna see you, have to--” He presses his sweaty forehead against Castiel’s, holding his eyes as they pant into each other’s mouth. Dean’s hand tightens as he thrusts up into Castiel again, biting his own lip in pleasure. 

“Dean,” Castiel strangles out, the heat searing now and he knows he’s close. He’s going to--

“I’ve got you, Cas,” Dean says, surprisingly soft as their noses brush. “I’ve got you.” It hits him forcefully, his body tensing and with a strangled breath punching out of him, he comes all over Dean’s hand. 

His eyes flutter closed as the pressure in his stomach is released, hands still gripping tightly onto Dean. Dean himself, is already reaching for his belt and throwing it to the floor. Castiel feels guilt rise inside of him – wanting to reciprocate but not knowing how – not knowing if he can. 

But Dean doesn’t hesitate for a moment, pulling himself from his own trousers, cock already hard and leaking. He strokes quickly, pressing his face into the side of Castiel’s cheek, mouth wet on his skin. 

Castiel holds him tightly, allowing Dean to thrust into him – allowing the hand on his back to move to his hair and grip tightly. He grunts softly, body trembling against Castiel. 

“Fuck, Cas,” he breathes, hand growing quicker and quicker. His other hand trails down to caress Castiel’s jaw, grip rough and gentle at the same time and his eyes open to meet Castiel’s own just as his body tenses beneath Castiel’s grip. “I – _Cas_ ,” he lets out on a breathy moan, voice shaky as he comes. 

The dark room is silent save for their rough breathing. Castiel’s chest continues to heave, eyes closed as their foreheads rest together and it’s only when Dean’s hand rests lightly on his back – in between his shoulders blades – that it all hits him in a rush. 

He’s ruined this. He’s ruined everything. He pushes Dean away, tucking himself back into his trousers and grabs his belt and swords from the floor, the panic flooding through him. 

“Cas, wait.” Dean grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around. “Please, just--”

“I have to go,” Castiel says and his chest aches at the words – at Dean’s face falling but he _has_ to. 

He leaves Dean’s chambers, closing the doors shut between them and stumbles into his own room. 

His heart beats faster than ever, the horror finally settling in. He can’t stay still, he can’t let himself think. He looks outside, the moon well and truly high in the sky. 

He throws off his stained clothes and pulls on some clean ones before splashing water on his face and taming his hair until he looks at least partially presentable.

He wishes it didn’t happen like this. He wishes it didn’t happen at all.

He exits their chambers, out into the hall and finds the first guard he sees. It’s past midnight.

He needs to see the king.

 

______________________________________

 

Dean wakes before dawn and this time, doesn’t hesitate to get up. He needs to speak to Castiel. He needs to tell him something – anything. He knows it must have all been a lot for him. Just like it was for himself. But if he’s ruined something…

He doesn’t want to think about it. He took far too long to fall asleep last night and he woke with fits and starts, unable to keep his eyes closed for more than a few hours. All he had wanted to do was go after Castiel – make sure he was okay and that this – that _he_ hadn’t ruined everything. But if the look on his face was anything to go by, that’s the last thing Castiel wanted. So, Dean restrained himself, allowing him to be alone.

He dresses into a clean uniform – he’d scrubbed his dirty one for what felt likes hours last night until there was no evidence of what they did. Of what he started.

He needs to fix this.

He walks out into the dining hall, stomach tied in knots and startles when he sees an unfamiliar face standing outside of Castiel’s chamber. 

“You’re up early, Your Highness. Would you like me to order breakfast for you?” the guard says, as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

His heart thuds in his chest. 

“Where’s Cas?”

“He is outside, Your Highness. Preparing to leave.” Panic rises like bile in his throat. 

“He’s leaving? To go where?” 

“He is travelling to--” the guard leans forward, lowering his voice, “--the Ellwood Forest with the other guards who were chosen.”

The slightest wave of relief washes over him. He’s not leaving for good. Unless…unless as soon as he leaves this castle, he’ll run far away from Dean and his stupid fucking desires that he can’t control. 

Dean presses his palms to his eyes. “Why – who allowed him to leave?” he asks, voice raised.

“He spoke to the king last night, Your Highness, and was permitted to leave with the others.” Dean’s chest tightens painfully. He doesn’t bother with a response, turning to the doors and racing out into the hall. 

He runs down past maids and servants, heads all whipping towards him in wonder. He slows around the corner out into the front garden, eyes sweeping the area until he sees them – the horses all saddled up with rucksacks and supplies, the men standing by them almost ready to set out.

And there – Castiel stands off to the side, brushing his horse down and tugging the saddle to make sure it’s secure. 

Dean runs towards him, breathing heavily as Castiel looks up, eyes wide. The other guards standing by their horses glance towards him as he grabs Castiel by the sleeve and pulls him out of hearing distance. 

“Dean, what are--”

“You can’t leave,” Dean rasps, the emotion overwhelming him. He still has a hand on Castiel’s arm and if he wasn’t out in the open with so many people watching he would clutch his face and hold it to his. 

“You can’t stop me, Dean,” Castiel says, voice tinted with sadness.

“Why are you doing this?” Dean’s voice cracks over his words as he struggles to keep himself from falling apart. He shouldn’t have done anything. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“You know why,” Castiel whispers.

“Cas, please don’t. I know you’ll just leave. I know you won’t come back and I can’t – I can’t--” Dean cuts himself off before a sob can choke out of him, his head falling as tears sting the back of his eyes. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, voice softer than ever before. He raises his eyes to meet Castiel’s once more. They shine in the first light of dawn. 

They’re beautiful. 

“I’m coming back. I promise.” He shrugs out of Dean’s arm and makes his way to his horse, mounting it in one go.

The guards around him do the same and with a call to get on their way, they begin to ride towards the outer wall. Castiel trails behind all of them, hands loosely on the reigns.

And as he goes by, Dean memorises all of him – in case this is the last time. Because no matter how sincere, deep down – where he’s most vulnerable – he doesn’t believe him.

He memorises the flecks of colour in his eyes to the shape of his mouth – the feel of his hair in his own hands to the way his back arched under his fingertips – the feel of his body trembling in pain, tears hot on Dean’s neck as he cried against him.

In the light of dawn, Castiel looks back over his shoulder and Dean considers that perhaps this is him taking Dean in for the last time.

The outer wall closes behind them and Dean is alone with a dull ache in his chest and teary eyes. 

He doesn’t sink to his knees. 

But he wants to.

 

______________________________________

 

He strides in as soon as the guard open the doors for him. He attempts to keep his composure but after his father only rolls his eyes and mutters a small, “Make this quick,” as the other generals leave the room, he drops his façade. 

“Why did you let him go?” Dean asks, hands clenched into fists at his sides. It’s almost evening now – Dean having to take the entire day to calm himself after this morning. 

“Because he asked to,” his father says nonchalantly. 

Dean huffs a laugh. “Because he asked you to? You despise him. Why would you allow him anything he asked?”

His father steps forward, meeting him head on. “Because when he asks to go on a mission as far away from this castle as possible, it suits my interests.” Dean breathes heavily.

“What if he escapes – runs away?”

“Then you will be better off.” Dean’s jaw ticks.

“My fighting has improved faster in less than two moons than it would have in a year without him.”

Without missing a beat, his father says, “And yet, you still stood no chance in Narla.” He flinches, teeth grinding together. 

“Yes. In Narla. Where you went to the trouble of sending four additional guards so I would be protected from Castiel. Four guards who in turn turned out to be some of the worst guards I’ve ever encountered, letting both Castiel out of their sight and me get captured without even a fight in a few small seconds.” Dean’s chest is heaving after he’s done, biting his lip to hold back more. 

But his father stares back at him as if he couldn’t care any less.

Dean digs his nails into his palms. And that question that lingered in his mind so long ago, rises on his tongue. “Did you _want_ something to happen?” he asks, slight fear in his voice. John stares at him for barely a second longer before laughing, loud and taunting, making Dean take a step backwards.

“You are even more dramatic than I thought,” he sneers. Dean’s chest constricts. “I didn’t think I needed to send four of my _best_ guards just to keep him separated from you. Four sloppy ones would do the job but apparently it didn’t matter anyway. Your guard kept away from you pretty well himself, didn’t he?” Dean holds his eyes. 

His chest aches at how little he seems to care but there is the slightest sense of relief knowing that his father didn’t wish for something to happen to him. Only wanted Castiel away from him.

Dean opens his mouth to finally retort but finds he has nothing to say.

“Is that all?” Dean’s eyes stay hard, unwavering. His father shakes his head. “Then get out.”

Once he’s out of the throne room, releasing a pent-up breath and unclenching his fists, he finds that he has nail shaped marks imprinted on his palms. He rests his eyes for a short moment.

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to get through this. 

 

______________________________________

 

The days pass by slower and slower as Dean finds his chest gaping with a hole that so desperately yearns to be filled. The loneliness creeps up on him like a shadow, waiting to take him apart piece by piece until he is utterly destroyed. 

On the fifth night, he slips away into his mother’s old chambers, ordering his new guard to wait outside and not disturb him.  It’s the same as it used to be except now it’s bare of any colour or trinkets. 

He used to come here sometimes after what happened. The perk of being a small child was that he could slip away easily. Guards and servants would be looking for him for hours – he was always curled up in the corners of her room or down beside the bed.

But it’s been a while. He walks around the chamber, hand dragging across the walls as if he can still feel her presence here somewhere, carved into the very air of the room.

He pauses near the window, shut and sealed tight and closes his eyes. It’s been five days now – five days of telling himself he’ll be okay – five days of believing – hoping – Castiel will come back.

And he can’t stop seeing him everywhere – in everything. The guards who train with him now hold back – scared of hurting him. Sam telling him over lunch that he’d read a book on different cultures in the eastern continent and that when Castiel gets back, he will need to show it to him. The dining hall where everything fell into place – if only for a little while. And sitting at his desk as he stares at the door. 

The dreams are worse. He whispers Dean’s name, holding him tight and somehow everything is always okay. 

Dean takes a long minute before he realises he’s crying. He brushes his tears away, lips trembling. He stumbles over to the bed, slipping down against the wall beside it. 

He breaths are jerky and cut off, sobs threatening to rip from him. Alone again, he thinks.

Always alone.

He leans his head back against the wall, reaching his hands out against the floor. 

Under the bed, his hand slips on loose wood. He stops, tears ceasing for a moment. He leans down, searching under the bed in the dark. The loose wooden plank is pushed in at a funny angle and Dean can see from here that there isn’t any stone beneath it. 

Eyes narrowing, he quietly tugs at the plank until it pulls away from the floor entirely. Is it just an old piece of loose wood or is something down there?

It’s hard to see in the dark so with a few deep breaths, Dean plunges his hand down into the small carved out space. His fingers brush old leather, wrinkled and covered in dust and cobwebs. Dean pulls it out, holding it up in the moonlight.

It’s a book. He brushes the dust on the cover away to find that it has no title. He flicks to the first page to find it filled with written words. 

His chest twinges. The handwriting is familiar. It’s his mothers.

_Continuing on from my last entry._

_They’ve accepted to help rebuild Donner’s Bay after the storm. I spoke directly with both the King and Queen. It was…strange. They both regarded each other as equals. I’ve heard much about the angels – their ways and savagery – of course how they fell. But I did not know of this. They seem…kind._

_Their people are working together outside – I even saw the princess, little Nyree, helping in the garden with a maid._

_I’m not quite sure what to make of it._

_They will be sending supplies as soon as possible and have decided on two hundred men and women who will be sent there as well._

_I feared going to Iowan but after it all, I would like to go there again._

Dean’s eyebrows pull together. He remembers this now. There was a terrific storm at Donner’s Bay that took many lives and homes. Their kingdom could not help them solely on their own and his mother had been sent with a few generals to ask the angels if they would contribute to the helping of the city.

He was barely eight years old. Four years before the invasion. The rest of the notes go on about the dealings over Donner’s Bay and Dean flicks through to the middle, eyes skimming the pages until something dated around five months before the invasion peaks his interest.

_It’s real. The Three. They’re all real. The wings, halo and grace. I witnessed it today. There was a great ceremony held at dusk. All of it is real. They always spoke to me as if it was real. I have grown very fond of them but I never believed it. I never believed any of it. But now…_

_The angels only hold the wings and halo – they haven’t found the grace after centuries of searching but they are determined they will._

_They have to now._

_They say that this is it. And I believe them. Because if this is real, then so is the prophecy. And if that is real--_

A loud knocking at the door interrupts Dean and he scrambles to shove the book back in the hole in the floor, carefully placing the wooden plank over it before standing and rushing to the door.

“Your Highness, your father is holding a dinner--” The guard is cut off as Dean exits the room, closing the door behind him. 

“Yes?”

“Um, your father, the king, is holding a dinner with you and your brother--”

“Alright, well, take me to him,” Dean interrupts, brushing his dusty hands in the back of his trousers.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

The dinner is just for show and thankfully Dean doesn’t have to give his input all that often – he knows his father likes it that way, anyway – allowing his mind to drift. 

He can’t make sense of what his mother was writing. 

But there’s a tickle at the back of his mind, as if he can’t quite recall something from the distant past – something that seems important.

He’s weighed down so heavily by exhaustion and the dreams of blues eyes and warm skin that by morning, he has all but forgotten his mother’s words.

 

______________________________________

 

The journey is long and tiresome, Castiel unable to sleep at night. At first, it’s due to the dirty looks the guards shoot him for the first few days of travel. One of them is the third guard that accompanied Nicalous and Salicar in slaughtering the pig in front of him – Pierre he finds out – who if anything shoots him even dirtier looks. But eventually they subside as they too grow tired. After that it’s only Dean that keeps him awake.

His hands warm on his skin and his lips gentle on his own. The trembling of his voice as he breathed Castiel’s name. But mostly it’s the look on his face as Castiel left – as if he had torn him apart. Perhaps he had. 

He knows it’s cruel – to leave him alone after what happened. And even though he promised, he saw in Dean’s eyes that he was unsure of whether or not he would come back.

Even if he could leave, he wouldn’t. Not after that.

But even when he goes back…they can’t do that again. They can’t be together, even in the shadows and the dark – they can’t. It seems easy now, with the distance between them but he knows that when he gets back…it will be harder than anything. Dean’s the first person in years who’s cared for him like that, who’s even held him like he did when Castiel broke. And now that he knows that his feelings are reciprocated--

 _No_. He won’t crumble. He will stay strong and resist this urge inside of him. 

But even as he thinks it, his heart yearns for Dean’s touch. 

It’s taken them eleven nights to travel from Anathee all the way to the Ellwood Forest via Lithos. They were able to speak to the travellers who say they saw an angel but the information is vague and the rest of the guards leave exhausted, no doubt thinking that this entire trip has been a waste. 

They will be staying here for three nights before returning to Anathee unless anything comes up.

They set up camp together on the outskirts of the forest, far enough away that suggests the guards don’t like the look of it. Castiel doesn’t blame them. Every creak and crunch has the guards turning their heads, the sounds always accompanied by that low whistle of the wind.

Two of the guards are building a fire when they hear it – a high pitched scream of a woman coming from the forest. The guards all jump to their feet, swords out in their hands in an instant. The scream echoes eerily off the hills – the forest cast in shadows, branches swaying and leaves rustling.

The guard’s eye each other and Castiel catches their fear. But this is their duty. They cannot stand down. “Alright, take a partner and we’ll split up. You…” the guard points towards Castiel, the odd one out. 

“I’ll be fine on my own,” he says and the guard nods. 

“Don’t go too far in. If you can’t find anything meet back here. Got it?” The five other guards nod, swallowing down their fear.

The three pairs along with Castiel slowly enter the forest going in slightly different directions. Another scream erupts from deeper in the forest where one of the pairs of guards were headed. Castiel holds his swords tight in two hands, the darkness enveloping him as he wanders deeper into the woods. He pauses for a moment, straining his ears and eyes to make sure he is completely out of sight. 

And with that, he sheathes his swords at his hips and takes of running through the trees, careful of his steps when it becomes thick with leaves and shrubbery. He lets his mind guide him, the steps coming with ease until he finds himself in a small clearing, the moonlight catching on him now. 

He inhales deeply, swallowing down the thickness in his throat. His hands are clammy where they are clasped at his back. 

There’s a rustle of leaves in front of him.

Castiel closes his eyes, breathing through his nose, in an out before opening them once more.

The moon reflects off hazel wings, stretching out wide across the clearing, feathers ruffling in the breeze. 

“It’s good to see you again, Castiel,” Michael says, nodding towards him. “I see your plan to enter the castle was successful.”

Castiel holds his head high. “Yes, brother. It was indeed.”

“However, not all went as you hoped, did it?” Castiel holds his eyes, unflinching. “No matter, you got there nonetheless. Now,” Michael says, taking a step closer, eyes glinting in the light. “Tell me everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This adventure has just begun!
> 
> UPDATE: Hi, everyone. For those of you who have been following me on tumblr you will know I've been having a really rough time lately and once again the next chapter will be postponed. It will 110% be up on the Thursday 23rd. Again, my apologies :( 
> 
> Due to the month of June when I was incredibly busy and unable to do any writing at all, I fell behind on my schedule for this story and instead of continuing to post and post until I finally catch up to myself and then have to take a massive break before posting between each chapters, I've decided it is much better for me (and my stress lol) to take a few smaller breaks every once in a while. So, unfortunately, that means that I'll be taking another mini hiatus and Chapter 11 will be posted on the 11th of August back on the normal Saturday, ~8-9pm AEST time. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I feel a lot safer this way. It's also fitting, considering this is the end of Part I: Wings!
> 
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	11. Chapter 11

**Part II: Halo**

 

Castiel has to steady his breathing as the castle rises up in the distance. It was difficult to say the least facing Michael after revealing that he had found practically nothing. His brother upon hearing the news, however, had barely flinched. He probably already knew, especially since news of Castiel becoming Dean’s personal guard wasn’t exactly kept a secret. But Castiel could still see it in his eyes. The disappointment. It was Castiel’s decision to go in this way and he will have to find a way around it.

But at least it’s not like he’s behind on time. The original plan to train as a royal guard to eventually get into the castle would have taken years. They both know that. He just has to find a way to slip away when Dean isn’t looking. The castle is large but the king wouldn’t just hide the halo anywhere. And a thorough searching of the library has left him with no mention anywhere of the grace – of where it’s location might be. 

The castle gets even closer before them. Despite his request, despite what was right, Castiel didn’t tell Michael everything. Didn’t tell him about Dean. He couldn’t. The shame is too great. And now, if things weren’t hard enough already, Castiel has to face the prince once more after being gone for nearly a full moon. 

He lags behind as they trot through the cobbled streets of Anathee. He keeps his eyes ahead, trying his hardest to will away the guilt festering in his gut. Because he knows they can’t do this.

He can’t let Dean in. He can’t get involved. He can’t know. 

The outer wall is already open in front of them and they ride through with no more than a few nods from the guards on rotation. Castiel exhales deeply. Back again. 

He remembers the fear the first time he faced the outer wall. The first time he was dragged in in the back of a pen. Even though it was planned, it was still as terrifying as ever. The fear that he might not ever come back out. And even after everything, that fear still lingers as he makes his way up the winding tracks towards the castle.

Once they unpack and regather, they are told that the captain is in a meeting but will be ready to hear their report right after he’s done. Castiel’s chest tightens. Dean will no doubt be in that meeting too. He thought he’d have more time before he saw Dean but he supposes not. 

Castiel follows the other six guards anxiously through the winding halls towards the meeting room. He takes a deep breath once he sees that the doors are still pulled shut. There’s still time. He needs to gather himself. It shouldn’t be this hard. 

But he can’t seem to calm the hammering of his heart. Certainly not when the doors finally open and the generals begin to stride out. The captain greets them first but Castiel doesn’t hear a word of what he says for Dean is striding out a moment later, mumbling something to the guard on his left. He looks up, cutting off immediately when his eyes meet Castiel’s. They widen ever so slightly before he schools his features, a hundred different emotions flashing through his eyes at once.

Castiel is vaguely aware of the leader from their mission speaking to the captain quietly but he can’t tear his eyes away from the prince. 

And then, “Oh. You’re back,” Dean says, disinterest clear in his voice. “Just in time for lunch. Sam has many things to catch you up on.” He turns towards the guard beside him and Castiel feels his stomach sink. 

He doesn’t know what he expected. It wasn’t to be welcomed back with opens arms but it certainly wasn’t this.  

“Captain,” Dean says, drawing all attention to him. “Will you be needing Castiel for the report?” The captain glances to the leader who swiftly shakes his head. There isn’t much to report. Other than finding a lost girl up a tree, hiding from wolves that she ‘apparently’ had been running from, they found no evidence of angels in the Ellwood Forest. Castiel didn’t recognise the girl. She must have been a new recruit of Michael’s and he has to say, she pulled the act off incredibly well. And stalled just long enough for Michael and him to have a proper conversation.

“He won’t be needed, Your Highness.”

“Good,” Dean says, eyes still averted. “I’m hungry.” He nods towards the guard behind him before the guard takes off, finally dismissed now that Castiel is here.

Dean strolls past him, shoving his shoulder roughly as he does but no one else seems to notice. Castiel looks down at his feet and takes another deep breath before following. He supposes he shouldn’t have expected anything more.

The kitchen is almost filled with men and servants bustling around. He easily spots Sam and Mervyn already waiting at the head table and the young boy’s face lights up when he sees Castiel. It’s enough to make Castiel’s lips quirk into a small, indulgent smile.

“How was your trip, Cas?” Sam says excitedly, leaning over the table once they take a seat. He’d been told, as had the rest of the castle, that Castiel and a few other guards were heading to Lithos to see how they were spending that money they gave them. They did in fact stop in and do just that but obviously, it wasn’t the main reason for their mission.

“It was fine, Prince Sam. But nothing memorable.”

“Well, it must’ve at least been nice to get away from Dean for a little while,” Sam responds, trying to stop himself from laughing at his own childish humour, as Castiel and Dean both stiffen on either side of the table.

Castiel swallows, opening his mouth to respond when he’s saved by Hermana and their meals being served.

“Oh, Castiel. It’s so nice to see you again. How was your trip?”

“Fine, although I missed your cooking tremendously,” he responds politely, thankful for the small talk. Hermana smiles sweetly before mumbling a quick ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m glad to hear it’ before moving back through the tables to the kitchen. Dean still hasn’t looked up from across the table as he piles food onto his plate. Castiel sits uncomfortably in his seat, hands clenching in his lap as he stares at the empty plate in front of him.

Dean starts to dig in, still not looking up and Castiel squeezes his hands tightly until he feels his nails biting into his skin. He can do this. Michael isn’t here. It’s just Dean. Dean who is angry at him. Dean who probably hates him. But he wouldn’t do this to him. Would he?

His stomach tightens and he has to close his eyes for a second to calm himself when he feels someone kick his leg under the table. He glances up to find Dean – eyes still not meeting his – but holding out a plate of fruit. 

Castiel breathes, taking it with a nod, humiliation burning his cheeks. No, Dean wouldn’t do that. He just must have forgotten. _He wouldn’t have to remember if you were normal_ , he thinks. No. Now that he’s seen his brother, he’s getting back inside his head again. He won’t let it. This isn’t his fault. 

He glances up at Dean to find his face drawn, features hard. But _that’s_ his fault. He should never have let it go this far. And now he has to clean up the mess. The least he can do is talk to him. To apologise. He just has to find some time to be alone with Dean. He can already tell, however, that it’s going to be harder than it sounds.

 

______________________________________

 

They head directly to the training hall after finishing up in the kitchen – or more accurately, after Sam finished filling him in on everything that he missed while he was away in excruciating detail. Dean barely spoke. Castiel barely did too, concentrating with his all to keep up with the young prince as much as he could while his mind was a whirlwind of Dean, Dean, _Dean_. 

The training hall is almost full when they arrive, the two of them only finding a small space which some guards clear for the prince in the corner of the room. Castiel clears his throat as Dean takes two wooden swords off the wall.

“Would you not prefer to train outside? It’s a lovely day.” 

“No. I would really rather train in here,” Dean says, eyes challenging. 

“But don’t you think it’s a bit crowded. There isn’t much space for--”

“I said I would really rather train in here,” Dean repeats firmly. Castiel nods, taking one of the swords from Dean.

“Have you been training every day?” he asks, preferring to leave out the ‘since I left’. 

Dean twirls his sword around in his hand. “Every day.”

“Then shall we train with our left today?” Castiel asks and Dean doesn’t hesitate to take the sword in his left hand. It’s not a surprise to see how quickly he is improving. Dean is a natural fighter after all. But he still has far to go. 

They run through a few drills before Castiel first tries to correct him.

He steps close to Dean and reaches for his left wrist. “Your hand is slipping. It should be--” Dean roughly yanks his hand away just as Castiel latches onto it. 

“Don’t touch me,” he says, and the hurt is clear in his voice. Castiel stares at him, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. 

“Dean, we really should find someplace--” 

“It’s Your Highness,” Dean cuts him off and Castiel blinks, realising his mistake. Luckily no one around them seems to be paying attention. 

“Right. Of course, Your Highness,” he says, heart aching in his chest. And he hates it. Because isn’t this what he wants? Doesn’t he want Dean to distance himself? No. It’s not what he wants. But it’s what he needs

“You were saying?” Dean asks softly, eyes still trained on the ground. 

It’s for the best, he thinks. It’s for the world.

 

______________________________________

 

They eat dinner in the kitchen and although Sam and Mervyn aren’t present, it’s certainly not a place where Castiel can discuss what he wants to with Dean. All he needs is a few moments to apologise and that’s it. If Dean really hates him and doesn’t want to even be touched by him then he won’t have to suffer through telling him that they can’t be together. At least that’s something. 

Walking back through the halls and up the large staircase to their rooms, Castiel keeps his distance. Dean enters quickly and Castiel is left with securely closing the door before turning to see the prince already walking off to his private chamber.

“Dean? Dean, just wait--”

The door slams shut behind him. Castiel sighs. He ponders for a moment going after him but decides against it. He can wait until the morning. And only now is he realising how incredibly exhausted he is. Between Michael’s disappointment, his own shame and Dean completely ignoring him…it’s easy for him to undress, light the fireplace and crawl into the warm, comfortable bed. 

And yet it still takes him hours to drift off. And when he does, the nightmares greet him with a smile as always.

 

______________________________________

 

He came back. _He came back_.

It echoes through his skull, his chest tight and heart aching. He’s angry and confused but the relief is palpable.

Dean lies awake in bed close to dawn. He barely slept. All he wanted to do was storm right into Castiel’s chambers and…and what? He doesn’t know. He wants to scream at him. Yes, that’s right. That’s what he wants. Because why did he have to leave? He knew Dean was vulnerable, didn’t he? How could he not know?

_But he came back._

Dean lets out a shaky breath and rises. He dresses quickly, sitting down at his desk to stare at an unopened book in front of him. He thought that maybe with Castiel gone that whatever this is he feels might go away. But it never did, of course it never did, and when he saw him, standing there in the hall – hair mussed and eyes bright--

He drops his head to the desk. He wants to scream. Dean stands abruptly and rounds his desk towards the bathing room when his door gently opens. He halts, eyes catching Castiel’s. 

Castiel’s mouth is already open as if he’s going to say something but no words come out. He stands stiff as a board, right there in front of him. Dean feels it in his chest. He wants to--

“Dean, I’m sor--” Dean’s hands are on either side of Castiel’s face before he can think about it and he’s crushing his lips into his with desperation, eyes closed and throat tight. Castiel gasps and Dean swallows it down but a moment later, he’s being pushed away. 

His heart drops, eyes searching Castiel’s pained face. 

“Dean, we can’t.”

Dean closes his eyes, fists clench into his sides. “You think I don’t know that?” Castiel stares at the floor. Dean swallows, pulling him inside his chambers and shutting the door behind him. Castiel doesn’t resist but the distance between them is greater now and it hurts. “Cas, just listen to me, okay, we can--”

“No, we can’t,” Castiel says, voice firm and eyes hard and pleading as they meet Dean’s.

“Why not?” Dean says, throwing his arms out wide, his chest tightening painfully. “And don’t give me that ‘you know why’ bullshit.”

“Dean…” Castiel says softly. Dean’s heart thuds in his chest.

“Just tell me, please. Why can’t we – no one will ever know.” Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t understand, Cas, just tell--”

“You’re right,” he says, voice hard once more. “You don’t understand. And you never will. So, just leave it be.” 

Dean’s eyes slip shut, his breathing shallow now and it doesn’t take him long to understand he’s panicking. “You _left_ me.” Castiel’s eyes flash with guilt. So, he did know. He does know. “You _fucking_ left me and you knew how scared I was – you knew I was fucking terrified and you just…” All of the supessed anger and sadness and fear from the last moon rages inside of him. Tears well up behind his eyes and his voice breaks over his next words. “How could you do that?” 

Castiel stares at the wall behind him for a moment before answering. “I’m sorry but I needed time.”

“Bullshit.”

Castiel scoffs. “Did you not notice?”

“Notice what?” Dean snaps.

“That I was scared too,” Castiel snaps back, that pain back in his blue eyes once more. “And you should know why that is.” Dean falters. His scars. His past. “I let you in. I let you...” Castiel’s voice wavers and Dean can see his shoulders curl in on himself. “And now I…”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, his hands clenching. 

“I came back,” he says. “Isn’t that all that matters?”

Dean lets out a deep, shuddering breath as he steps forward and raises his hands to Castiel’s face but he barely grazes his skin before Castiel is pulling away.

“Don’t. Just…” Castiel doesn’t meet his eyes as he lets out a shaky breath. “Don’t.”

Castiel passes by him and out into the dining hall, closing Dean’s door behind him. He can hear servants entering to serve breakfast and finds his feet carrying him into the bathing room where he sits down against the wall and pulls his knees to his chest, the panic settling in his chest unwelcomed. 

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to even deal with this. The only thing he does know now is that he doesn’t want to scream. He just wants to be held and told that everything’s going to be alright. Except this time, he wants it to be true. 

 

______________________________________

 

The arrow misses the bullseye by in inch. Dean doesn’t hesitate in picking up another arrow and pulling back the string. It misses again. 

Castiel sits in the grass a few yards away and instead of watching Dean miss the next bullseye, gazes at the ground. 

His heart is heavy in his chest. 

After nearly that full moon away from Dean, the memory of his touch, of the lines of his body, of his lips whispering his name – they were starting to fade. He was better off that way. But now… Dean’s lips on his again and those warm hands pressing into his skin as if he was the only person who mattered in that moment…

And then to push it all away. It hurts. It aches so deeply that Castiel could barely stand to look at him as he told him no. That he can’t. He didn’t tell him that he wants to, that it’s all he can think about, that he doesn’t have to feel alone – only that he can’t do this. 

Everything is on him. He can’t destroy it all for the sake of some pathetic need to be loved and cared for. 

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, ripping another arrow from it’s bundle and hastily pulling back the string once more. 

Castiel runs a tired hand through his hair. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Dean says, as the next arrow lands even further away from the bullseye. Castiel stands from his position in the grass and steps closer to Dean. Just as he’s raising another arrow, Castiel grabs his wrist and pulls it down. Dean tries to shrug him off but Castiel holds him firm.

“Put the bow down,” he says evenly, Dean’s eyes flicking anywhere but towards him. He huffs, throwing the bow to the ground. “Now pull back the arrow as you would if you were still holding it.” Dean hesitates for a few seconds before complying, raising the arrow in his right hand and holding his left out as if clutching the bow.

And that’s when Castiel notices.

His hands – they’re trembling.

It’s subtle. He wouldn’t have been able to see it from where he was sitting but standing here it’s clear. Dean clenches his hands a few times as if that will stop them until eventually he gives up and picks the bow back up from the ground. 

“We don’t have to do this now if you’re not up to it. We can train with--”

“I’m fine,” Dean grits out, pulling the arrow back. 

“No, you’re not. Your hands are shaking.”

“And why do you think that is, huh?” Dean says, voice raised as he realeases the arrow and turns to face him.

Castiel grinds his teeth. “I’m sorry, Dean but I made my decision and you can’t force me--” he stops, shaking his head. “This isn’t fair.”

“Oh, that’s not fair, is it? You know what’s not fair?” Dean says, stepping into his personal space. “Me waking up that morning to find that you were fucking leaving. Without even a word, you were going to leave. What if I hadn’t woken up when I did, huh?” Dean shoves him lightly in the chest, causing him to take a step backwards. “What if I woke up and you were already gone? I wouldn’t have even had a chance to say goodbye.”

“But I came back. I was _always_ going to come back. And facing you…” Castiel trails off, taking a breath to try and stay calm. “You don’t know how sorry I am. For leaving you like that. I should never have--” He cuts himself off before he can finish his sentence but from the look of Dean’s face, he’s already done the damage. 

“What? You shouldn’t have what?” The pain in his eyes makes Castiel’s own chest ache. But it’s true. He shouldn’t have let Dean in – shouldn’t have let him kiss him and hold him like that. It could get in the way of the mission – of everything. And that’s not even touching on how letting someone in at all terrifies him. 

“There are other guards around, Dean, we are arousing suspicion. Please just drop this.”

Dean lets out a sad huff of laughter, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “So, this is how it is.” He doesn’t respond. Dean runs his hand over his jaw before clearing his throat loudly. “Right, well I have a lesson now so let’s pack up and get to it.” Castiel nods succinctly. 

And so, this is how it is. At least for now.

 

______________________________________

 

Orderic rambles beside him as Dean sneaks glances through the nearest shelf where he can see Castiel on the other side, flpping through a book. He grunts whenever he can to let Orderic know that he’s listening as the lesson drags on. He doesn’t want to look at Castiel but he can’t help himself. His jaw is darkened with stubble and his hair is in need of a cut – curling around the back of his ears. 

“Your Highness? Your Highness?” Dean blinks out of his daze to find Orderic staring at him, concerned. 

“Ugh, yes, sorry, you were talking about the trade between Senly and Terrowin?” Orderic narrows his eyes, his spectacles slipping slightly down his nose.

“Your Highness, we finished with that five minutes ago.” Great. “Are you feeling alright?”

Dean swallows, nodding with a small smile. “I’m fine. Just have a lot on my mind is all.”

“We may resume this tomorrow if you would like.”

“No, no, carry on. I’m okay now.”

Orderic huffs, flicking a few pages back in the book open in front of him. “Very well, Your Highness.” 

When Dean flicks his eyes back up to where Castiel was, he’s gone. 

He shoves down the ache in his chest. He only has to make it until the night and then he can shut Castiel out and finally let himself break. He can feel it inside of him – the pressure in his chest and it just keeps building and building.

Once again, he doesn’t want to scream. This time he only wants to cry.

 

______________________________________

 

The next few days are hard. Dean barely speaks to him – barely looks at him. He doesn’t blame him. Their conversations and trainings are strained, Dean getting frustrated quickly, which in turn makes Castiel himself frustrated.

Sam even starts to notice there’s something off when his brother becomes quieter and more distant, his thoughts always miles away. If they’re not dining with Sam, they’re eating in their own chambers but for most of it, Dean will take his food into his own room and close the door behind him. 

But not tonight. Tonight, Dean sits across from him, eating slowly. The air is thick with tension but it’s a start. He wonders if it will ever return to normal. Was their relationship ever normal?

Castiel’s about to ask permission for him to leave to his rooms for the night when Dean stands abruptly. “Are you finished?” he says, finally looking him in the eye. His voice wavers slightly. Castiel nods, swallowing. “Then let’s go.” 

Dean leads them down the hall, Castiel close at his side. “Where are we going?”

“You don’t need to know,” he responds roughly.

They come to the end of the dark hall – the lanterns on either side unlit. Dean doesn’t hesitate to grab at the doorknob leading into the room in the corner. “Wait out here,” he says before quickly slipping inside. From the small glimpse that he catches, the room is small and bare, only a large bed in the centre. 

Abandoned.

He knows who this room must belong to. Or used to.

Mary Winchester.

And he knows he must take this chance. 

Because what if this is where the king is keeping the halo? He scouted the exits from the library fully yesterday and there was only a small time slot for him to be able to slip out unnoticed. But to go anywhere without someone seeing him – and seemingly everyone knows his face around here – it would be nearly impossible. The only other way is to slip out at night and scale the castle until he can slip into the king’s chambers – but he’d have to find the time when the king wouldn’t be there. And being around Dean all day, being expected to stay by his side at all times – it would be hard to find. 

But this is something. Because this is Queen Mary’s abandoned chambers and from the look of the dust on the floor – on everything – it seems as though it never gets cleaned. Meaning no one ever goes inside. With the excpetion of Dean. 

Could Dean know anything? It’s unlikely considering the relationship with his father and so far, Dean’s knowledge of the invasion has been minimal. Just like everyone else. Does that mean that nothing could be in here? Because if so, would Dean have found it? But Castiel has never seen him come here before. Perhaps this is the first time. Or perhaps he doesn’t do it often. That could mean that he doesn’t know anything – that he hasn’t found anything.

But Dean wouldn’t be looking anyway. He is. 

Castiel takes a breath before opening the door and stepping over the threshold. 

The entire room is the same as that one glimpse. Small and bare, layed over with dust. The window is sealed closed, curtains pulled across to let the moonlight in. Besides the dust, the wooden floorboards are emmaculate. No cracks or stains. No evidence that a guard once lay dead on this floor.

He takes it all in in a second. And a second after he takes in Dean, sitting down against the wall beside the bed, his head in his hands before he looks up, rage in his eyes. 

“What are you doing in here?” And he sounds angrier than he’s ever heard him. Guilt fills his gut. He’s breaching Dean’s trust by entering his mother’s old chambers. But he doesn’t have a choice. He may not get another chance. He has to stall.

“I need to speak with you.” Dean stands, rubbing the back of his hand over his cheeks roughly before walking towards him.

“Get out.”

“Dean--” He’s shoved hard against the wall, Dean’s arm on his chest as he flicks his eyes quickly around the room for anything out of place – for any trace of dust scraped, a loose floorboard or panel in the wall before focusing back on Dean. 

“I said get out,” he grits, through clenched teeth.

“I need to talk to you--”

“Then talk to me back in our chambers,” his voice is raised and Castiel’s surprised that he can’t hear anyone coming. “Not here.” Dean’s just short of pleading and his arm is a solid weight against his chest. “Now _leave_.” Castiel’s own eyes wander over to the chest near the bed that is sealed with a lock but it doesn’t look as thought it has been opened in a long time. 

“Just give me--”

Dean shoves him hard against the wall once more but his head drops and his lower lip starts to tremble. Castiel’s heart twinges, that guilt rising up in full now.

“Please, Cas. Don’t you know who’s room this is?” Dean’s eyes lift to him then, gleaming with tears. His chest pulls tight. 

This is why he’s ruined everything. This is why all of it was a mistake. Because in this moment he should persist – he should search for more evidence no matter how much pain it causes Dean for him to be desecrating his mother’s chambers. 

But he doesn’t. Because he can’t bear it. Because he cares about Dean more than he would like to admit. 

He steps out of the room and Dean shuts the door with a soft click. He waits in the dark end of the hall, carpet plush beneath his feet. He prays to Leuric. He asks for guidance, for assistance. How is he supposed to continue on with his mission if he can’t bare to cause more of a rift between the prince and himself than there already is?

How is he supposed to find what he came here for and leave this man behind? 

Because he will have to eventually. If it all succeeds, he will leave this castle – he will leave Dean once again. 

Because what he never said was that while he came back for now, he never intended on staying forever.

 

______________________________________

 

_You wouldn’t understand._

He doesn’t know what there is not to understand. He understands that they can’t be together publicly – that they are two men. He understands that perfectly. He understands that Castiel has been hurt before – terribly and consistently. But he also understands that Castiel kissed him back that night – let him touch him and hold him close – that he can stand Dean’s touch despite his fear. 

So, what can’t he understand? 

“What are we out here for?” Sam asks softly, pulling Dean out of his thoughts. 

Dean forces a smile. “It’s a nice day and we haven’t talked properly in a while. I want to see how you’re doing.” Mervyn and Castiel stand side by side, quite a few yards away, giving them their own privacy. 

They’ve found a marble bench in the courtyard, right beside the small pond to sit on. 

“I’m doing okay. Mervyn is pushing me in training now because he says I’m getting a lot stronger.”

“Finally turning into a man, huh?” Dean says with a cheeky smile. Sam elbows him in the side with a pout but Dean can see the smile in his eyes.

“What about you?”

“Just the usual,” Dean says, hoping to reassure him but Sam frowns, kicking his feet at the ground.

“Did something happen between you and Castiel?” Dean’s mouth parts slightly as he flicks his eyes over to where Castiel is conversing quietly with Mervyn before glancing back at his brother.

“Why would you say that?” Sam eyes him curiously before shrugging.

“I don’t know. You just seemed to be getting along so well before he left but now that he’s back, you’re not the same.” Dean mentally curses. If Sam’s already picked up on this, he wonders if anyone else has. He wonders if anyone would suspect--

No, they wouldn’t. That would be outrageous. “So…what happened?” Sam asks.

Dean takes a deep breath, picking at some dirt under his nails before lying. Well, to a certain extent. “We got into a fight about…” Dean clears his throat, “training. I wanted to do it a certain way and he disagreed with me. It’s nothing really but now he’s keeping his distance.” 

Sam nods slowly as Dean shoots him a small smile. He looks at his boots, thinking of something else to say when Sam speaks, “Why did he disagree with you?”

Dean’s throat tightens. He huffs meekly. Castiel’s already looking at him when Dean meets his eyes but quickly flicks them away and Dean’s left staring at the shape of his mouth, soft and parted – at how the sunlight caresses it. 

“I don’t know, Sam,” he mutters quietly. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should ask him, then. I don’t like seeing you two fighting.” Sam’s eyes are serious and unrelenting and Dean wishes he could _just_ ask. He wishes Castiel could just tell him. But nothing’s ever that simple.

Dean ruffles Sam’s hair, making the smaller boy yelp. Dean chuckles, wrapping an arm around his small shoulders and pulling him tight against his side. “I’ll see.”

Sam smiles, wide and gummy. “Well, no matter, at the end of the day, you’ll always have me, right?”

Dean feels a strange swell of emotion in his chest as his brother continues to peer up at him brightly. Because it’s true. They may not spend as much time together as they used to but at the end of the day, Sam is always there for him with a smile and a laugh. And he would do anything to protect that smile and laugh. “Yeah. ‘Course, Sammy. I’ll always have you.”

 

______________________________________

 

He’s planned it perfectly. It’s nearing midnight now and Dean’s locked tight in his own room. Castiel has spent the last two days finding out everything he didn’t already know. The layout of the outside of the castle and most importantly the routine of the king and general’s private meetings. He already knew the guard’s rotation schedules and the location of the king’s chambers.

One of those meetings will be starting in fifteen minutes – at exactly midnight. Castiel shoves his desk up against his door just in case anyone – most likely Dean – tries to get in. He isn’t planning on being gone long but he can’t risk someone walking in to find he’s not here. 

He strolls over to one of the windows beside the fireplace and begins quietly pushing it open. It’s going to be a tight squeeze but he’s divested himself of his jerkin and sheath with swords – leaving him with the daggers in the sheaths on his thighs and his doublet. Luckily, it’s not too cold out now that they’re nearly a full moon into spring. 

He pokes his head out just to double check no one is wandering in the back gardens and that the guards are in their positions by the doors and under the small arches blocking their view of him. Thankfully, they are and with his fingers clinging onto the cracks in the stone, he pulls himself out of the window.

If he falls it will likely be to his death. 

But his fingers have cracked and bled with the amount of days he’s spent clinging to rock faces as Michael watched on below – watching as he slid down, scraping the skin off his hands and knees and only being told to start again. 

And so, he moves like the wind, gracious and light across the outer wall of the castle, fingers and feet finding purchase in the smallest of cracks and stones that jut out. The king’s chambers are located at the other end of the castle, beside the chambers of the queen, making it a fortunately short journey. 

He happens across a small balcony on his way and is able to let himself rest for a moment, perching on the railing as he peeks inside the room. He jerks back once he sees the curtains are wide open to reveal two generals speaking to one another. They’re deep in conversation but one of them faces towards the windows and would surely see Castiel if he were to try and dash across. And he doesn’t have time to wait for them to move so he quickly scans above and below before choosing the easiest passage. Upwards. 

The wind starts to pick up as he resumes climbing and he has to be careful, slowing his movements but he’s distinctly aware that he’s already running out of time. The meetings never go for a set time – differing with the amount of business they need to discuss so he needs to be at the king’s chambers right when he leaves so that he can have the most time possible to search. 

When he finally reaches it, perching down onto the railing of the king’s balcony with a breath of relief, he trains his ears for any sound of movement inside but the doors must be closed for he can’t hear a thing. With the moon blocked by the side of the castle, Castiel is merely a shadow as he peers into the king’s chambers. And there he stands, the mighty king, speaking to a guard – one of the guards he always sees with him. 

They speak for a while – well, the king speaks and the guard nods, only occasionally speaking himself – before they both make their way out of the room and close the doors behind them. Castiel observes for a torturously long minute, surveying for any shadows underneath the doors before sliding off the railing and onto the stone floor of the balcony. He tests the doors and like expected they’re locked.

He pulls a small nail that he’d picked from the floorboards out of his pocket, along with a dagger. Jamming both of them into the keyhole, he jiggles them around for a few seconds before the door clicks open. He waits for moment or two, eyes fixed on the light coming in under the doors before pushing them quietly open and slipping into the king’s chambers. 

It’s almost identical to the layout of Dean’s chambers but the decoration is much more rich and vibrant – the walls decorated in red and gold, a stark contrast to Dean’s lighter colours. But much of everything else is the same and it’s easy to start searching. 

He makes his way around the room, quickly shuffling through drawers – careful not to leave anything out of place – as well as eyeing the walls and the floors, looking for any bumps or planks that look as though they may be hiding anything underneath. 

He finds a large book, bulging with letters stuffed into it in one of the drawers of the king’s desk and flicks through the first few pages. It seems to be mostly documenting the castle’s dealings with other towns but nothing of Iowan and the queen’s visits there to deal with the angels in person. He browses through hoping to find anything else when he comes across a passage that looks as though it’s a diary entry.

_Mary is pregnant once more. We had almost given up but they have told us it is true. They think it’s a boy. I have never seen her happier. She has been distant lately too. I think she’s hiding something from me. But I can’t be sure. She might have just been feeling ill from the unkown pregnancy. But something inside of me thinks that it might have to do with those angels. If she doesn’t let up soon, I’ll confront her about it but for now, I’ll let her bask in this joy._

Castiel flicks through a few more pages, skimming letters and diary entries and surprisingly Dean’s name comes up a lot. Almost as if his father was proud of him once upon a time – detailing his training and how even he is helping with his new born brother, Samuel. 

He pauses when he finds another entry from the thirtieth of the tenth, eleven years ago from now. Castiel swallows around the lump in his throat as his eyes fly over the passage.

_She’s hiding something. I know it. She came home today and barely spoke with me. Her face was almost…ashen. But she made it clear that the angels hadn’t done anything to her when I asked. I fear for her safety. But I also fear for something else. I have come to believe over the years that she has grown fond of them down in Iowan. That she enjoys going there. Ferrant doesn’t see it – or perhaps she’s good at hiding it for he never says that anything is out of the ordinary. He says that the angels are always kind to Mary and he’s never seen anyone try to hurt her._

_But this time, he didn’t look so sure. He claimed that something happened on the eighteenth – she disappeared from her rooms. He’d gone to check on her to find her not there. It was just before midnight and he’d searched the castle and the grounds but no one raised any alarm as if they knew something he didn’t. As if they knew where she was._

_And then she appeared walking towards her rooms where he waited, her eyes wide with wonder but insisting she was okay and had been called upon by the king and queen to attend a special meeting, celebrating their involvement over the years._

_But another thing he said – that the castle was almost bare. Usually, there are a multitude of guards and servants but he ran into only a few. And he claims that for a moment that he heard something. He says it was like a hum, vibrating the floors and walls of the castle. But he was hesitant to tell me as if he didn’t believe it happened._

_But I believe him. Something happened that night. Something happened and Mary was there. Maybe something happened to her. What did they do to her? But she is so insistant they did nothing – that it was merely a celebration. But why did she slip away by herself without Ferrant? Why did she not tell him of her whereabouts?_

Castiel skims page after page, searching for any words that are important, halo, grace, wings – anything until he finds that date atop another page. February 9th, ten years ago. The night before the invasion started. 

_She is missing. Ferrant is dead in her chambers but we do not know from what. And she is missing and_

The rest of the page is empty and he flicks over to find it continued on in sloppy scrawl, the ink smudged in places, making it hard to read but eventually he figures it out.

_It’s been hours since she’s been gone. There is no trace that she ever existed. The guards have_

Castiel flicks through the next few pages but finds them empty and when they resume again, it’s half a moon later, speaking of the victory in Iowan and Mary isn’t even mentioned at all.

_It’s been hours since she’s been gone._

How can that be? Mary didn’t go missing on the night before the invasion. How did it get covered up for so long. Unless of course…

Castiel riffles through the next few pages and still no mention of Mary and for another matter, of Dean. Sam is mentioned here and there but it is mostly talking about the aftermath of the war and how their trade will be different. The writing is mostly the same but his words sound colder now, more--

Voices sound outside and a quick look to the doors, show that the shadows have changed. Panic spikes and Castiel closes the book, placing it back in it’s drawer before swiftly slipping out the doors of the balcony. He turns backwards to close them but the doors to the chambers are already swinging open and he jumps back onto the railing just in time, nearly losing his footing as he does. Then the shouting begins. He can’t hear the voices but he quickly hears a stampeed of footsteps bursting into the room and he only has a second to make a decision on where to go next. If he goes underneath the balcony any of the guards could step out of their posts at the commotion and see him. Upwards it is again.

He scales the stone as fast as he ever has, hand almost slipping as he does and a quick glance below him shows guards rushing out onto the balcony to look for an intruder just as he pulls himself onto the roof. It’s not the best position to have – guards from the courtyard and inner gate could clearly see him in the light of the moon if they looked carefully. But it’s better than nothing.

From below he hears voices rise and he knows he needs to move. The castle will be alarmed any moment. He runs softly across the rooftop until he finds himself above his own chambers. He cranes his head over the side but there are still guards out on the balcony of the king’s chambers. They’re barely shadows but he can’t risk any of them seeing him climb down into his own window. They would know it was him for sure. So, he waits, heart pounding in his chest, fists squeezed tight by his sides because he lost himself for a moment – focused too much on what he had read and not only did it nearly get him caught but he still found nothing. Well, not nothing. It may be proof. It may not. 

And Castiel has looked into those eyes himself. Those deep, dark eyes. It may just be. And if it is, the worst thing Castiel can do is get caught. They already have the halo here. Perhaps even the location of the grace – or the grace itself. If he was captured and found out – it could all be over. 

He listens to the sounds of guards rushing around outside and when finally, those on the king’s balcony move inside, Castiel doesn’t waste a second more. He starts his descent down the castle towards his window, barely pausing to make sure his purchases are safe before resting his weight on them. A guard runs around below, yelling and screaming at the others and Castiel stops in his tracks, slowing his breathing as he clings to the wall, pressing his body against the cold stone. He’s still so far up that the guards most likely aren’t even able to see him but he still waits until they’re out of sight anyway. He breathes deeply, stepping down to find another hold for his feet.

And then his hands slip. 

He reaches out quickly with his right hand, gritting his teeth as he falls and skids along the stone to find purchase – his body jerking harshly when he finds a hold. His muscles scream and his hand burns – he’s sure he’s torn the skin off and he even starts to feel blood drip down his palm. He bites his lips hard, trying to keep his heart slow as he searches for cracks for his other hand and his feet. 

He listens carefully for anything – shouts of guards, crunches of boots on the ground coming his way. But he hears nothing. He lets out a deep breath, relief flowing though him. The fall has luckily left him just above his window and he’s able to carefully kick it open and slide himself in – although his hand still screams in pain. 

Once he lands on the wooden floor, he shuts the window and breathlessly runs over to the desk blocking his door and moves it back to where it should be before unlocking it. He swiftly moves across the floor towards the bucket of water next to his bath. His right palm is completely shredded, blood is flowing quickly now and the skin is peeling off. He dunks his hand in the water and closes his eyes to start the healing. He can hear the commotion in the halls, sounds of running and chainmail clanking.

He can feel his hand slowly knitting back together as the rest of the blood is washed away. 

His back is turned when his door slams open. He whips around to find Dean standing by the door, his clothes thrown on messily and a look of worry on his face. “Cas, we need to--” His eyes narrow as he cuts himself off. “What are you doing?” he asks and Castiel looks towards the bucket of water that luckily is too far away for Dean to see the blood that colours it red. 

Castiel swallows. “I was about to have a bath,” he says, waving his hand in the direction of his tub before he realises his mistake. Dean’s eyes flick to his hand and he quickly points his palm in the opposite direction, hoping he didn’t see the mess of it in the low light.

But the hope vanishes when Dean speaks again. “Is there something wrong with your hand?” Castiel keeps it facing away, concentrating hard.

“No.”

Dean stares at him, not making a move to come any closer.

“Someone broke into the king’s chambers,” he says, voice softer and yet somehow intimidating.

“Oh,” Castiel responds, and he can feel a small trickle of blood slide down his palm.

“We’re supposed to meet in the ball room and wait there until the guards have done a full search of the castle,” Dean continues to stare at him, brows pulled together. 

Castiel takes a steady breath. “I suppose I will bathe later then,” he says, wiping his hand subetly on the back of his trousers as he grabs his belt and swords from his bed – not bothering with his jerkin – before securing them in place and walking towards the door.

Dean is still as he goes to pass him and he’s almost out the door when Dean shoots his hand out to grasp his right wrist and pulls it towards him roughly, palm facing up. And Castiel lets him.

For his palm is fine – no trace of any wound at all bar the lightest smear of blood across his thumb. Dean, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice it, dropping it as soon as he sees it’s bare of the mess of red and scraped skin he thinks he glimpsed before.

He opens his mouth a few times – perhaps with an apology – but Castiel saves him. “We really should get going.” Dean meets his eyes once more, holding them for a few seconds before dropping them.

“Right.” He turns, heading out the door and Castiel swipes the last of the blood from his thumb onto his trousers, clenching his fist a few times to stretch the newly knitted skin that sits there. 

 

______________________________________

 

He’s paranoid now. Why would he think that Castiel would break into his father’s chambers? There was no evidence but his own imagination conjuring up an image of a bloody hand in the shadows. But he’s so sure he saw it. 

Or maybe it’s his own insecurities projecting these things into his mind. Making him believe that Castiel is perhaps trying to find a way to escape by scaling the castle – trying to escape because of him and what he’s got him in to. 

Castiel stands beside him now in the ball room – filled with servants and generals, nobles and guards. His eyes flick around the room, surveying in that way he always does. But Dean can barely even care about the commotion. It’s entirely possible his father left his doors unlocked and the wind blew them open. It’s happened to Dean before once when he was younger as Heymon was dragged away to speak with his father and forgot to finish securing his rooms for the night.

This could all be for nothing. And it’s why he finds himself unable to stop glancing at Castiel – at the way he stands and holds himself, at the dark shadows under his eyes and the sharpness of his jaw.

At the purse of his lips. 

Dean grits his teeth, looking away. Sam stands beside him, chatting away quietly to Mervyn. One of his feet taps restlessly on the floor. He must be nervous. Dean doesn’t blame him. Sam turns towards him, a smile on his face – clearly not conveying what he feels inside – and his eyes ever so subtely flick towards Castiel beside him before he glances away.

_Maybe you should ask him, then._

Sam’s words vibrate inside his skull. He wants to. He wants to ask. He wants to know. _Why can’t we have this?_

But he can’t. Because Castiel won’t give him an answer. 

But he _has_ to. He can feel it building up inside of him – as if he might shatter. He thinks he will soon. He can’t keep this up forever. Not with Castiel by his side every day. Not with--

He feels Castiel’s gaze heavy on the side of his face. He wants to gaze back. He wants to look into his eyes and find all of his answers layed out there clearly. But he also wants to shove him hard and yell at him for what he’s done. What he’s made Dean into – what he’s made him feel. He’s the reason they’re in this whole mess. 

Deep down, however, he knows it’s not true. Dean felt it long before Castiel ever kissed him back. 

He feels Castiel’s gaze shift away. He breathes.

They stand side by side without exchanging a word until dawn when everyone is ushered out of the ball room. The search is over. No intruder was found and from Dimarus’ mouth – there was no sign that anything had been touched let alone taken from the king’s chambers.

The wind, Dean thinks. It’s always the wind. 

Except for his mother. Oh, how he wishes it was the wind for her. 

 

______________________________________

 

The next few days are rough. The castle is quiet after he set off the alarm in the king’s chambers but slowly it is forgotten.

Dean, on the other hand, is worse than usual. He barely speaks to him, not even trying anymore, and more than once decides not to train at all. Castiel doesn’t even try to fight him. He’s too tired from the sleepless nights and the constant ache in his chest. He wants to tell him that this isn’t what he wants – this isn’t what he chose. But he can’t say that. 

So, he swallows it all down. The ache is almost unbearable. 

It’s almost midnight and the servants have just arrived to take dinner from the table. Dean had a meeting with Dimarus that took longer than he expected and they missed having dinner with Sam and Mervyn and to both their dismay, settled for eating it here. But much to Castiel’s surprise, Dean didn’t ask for the dinner to be sent to each of their rooms like most days when they eat here together.

And it has Castiel on edge. But Dean didn’t say anything during dinner. Perhaps he is tired of eating alone. At least, Castiel hopes. 

The servants clear the table, bowing to the prince who returns with a lazy nod before they wheel their cart out the door and close it behind them. Castiel looks across the table to find Dean with his eyes closed, his chest heaving slightly more than normal.

Castiel stands to say farewell but Dean beats him to it. “You’re not leaving.” His voice is low and rough, almost a command. Castiel feels his heart pick up. He doesn’t need this. Not now. Not with this ache in his chest that sometimes has him dreaming of Dean’s gentle hands on his face.

“Apologies, Your Highness, but I have to decline. I’m--”

“It’s Dean,” he retorts, jaw clenched and hands curling into fists on the table. Castiel takes a step back, eyes flicking to the door, wondering if anyone can hear Dean’s raised voice. “And it wasn’t a request.”

Dean’s eyes meet his then and they are hard but – pained. It’s as clear as the stars in the night sky. 

“Dean,” he says softly, “I’ve made my decision--”

“I don’t give a fuck about your decision. I just want you to tell me why,” he says, voice wavering slightly. 

Castiel winces, glancing towards the door. “Please keep your voice down. Someone will--”

“Look at me, Cas. Just look at me. Please. No one’s gonna hear us.” Castiel closes his own eyes, digging his nails into his palms before forcing himself to meet Dean’s pleading gaze. “Why can’t you just tell me?” His voice is soft, eyes softer. And Castiel almost does. 

He looks away. 

“Because I can’t.” Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Dean slumps his head forward into his hands before gripping his hair tightly. And then he slams his fists down onto the table before standing from his chair and striding off into his room. 

Castiel glances towards the door once more but he can’t see any movement from under it. He curses inwardly before following after, carefully locking Dean’s door behind him. 

“Dean, you need to calm down.” Dean whips around, eyes hard. 

“Well, I would be if you would just tell me--” he says, voice cracking over the last words. He runs a hand through his hair and down over his face and Castiel thinks he sees a glimmer of tears in his eyes. “I’m barely holding onto myself, Cas. I don’t understand anything. Not you – not this – not myself.” It’s hard not to reach out. But Castiel’s never been good at comforting others. “Just tell me.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Well make me understand.” Castiel huffs, a choked noise slipping from his lips. If only he could. If only it was that easy.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Dean says, as he starts walking towards him. Castiel takes a step back as he nears, back hitting the wall.

“Dean, just stop this,” he says, his own voice wavering now as Dean steps in close, his hands reaching up to cradle Castiel’s cheeks. He feels his eyes fluttering closed as Dean leans in, lips grazing Castiel’s own and it would be so easy to let himself have this – to let himself--

“Dean, stop,” he says, forcefully shoving Dean away until he stumbles backwards. 

Dean’s chest heaves as his eyes fill with pain once more. “I know you want this. I know you do.”

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, shaking his head. “You don’t know anything.”

“I don’t?” Castiel swallows down the rising emotions in his chest as he faces Dean’s challenging stare. “I know someone hurt you when you were younger. That they left scars all over you and hurt you so bad that you can barely let anyone touch you without you recoiling away.” Castiel almost flinches at the words themselves. He doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t need to hear this. Not from him. “And I know that you didn’t when I touched you. You said it yourself. You let me in.” Castiel shakes his head, chest tightening. “So, don’t act like this is nothing.”

“I never did,” Castiel responds through gritted teeth.

“And don’t act like I know nothing,” he says, voice raising once more and Castiel clenches his jaw so hard, his teeth scrape together painfully.

“But you don’t!” he snaps, chest heaving now. “You don’t know anything at all. You don’t know what I’ve been through.” 

_He’s drowning._

_Michael, please._

_I always knew._

It swells up inside of him, like a wave about to crash on the rocks. “You barely even know who I am,” he spits. Hurt flashes across Dean’s face but he only persists.

“Who was it? Was it your brother?” Castiel balks at his words. “Was he the one that did this to you? When he trained you to be the way you are – did he hurt you to get there?”

His lower lip trembles. He wants to scream at him to stop. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is that why you won’t let anyone touch you?”

Tears prick behind his eyes. “Stop.”

“Because he did this to you? Because he cut you up like an animal? Because he was one himself?” Castiel flinches then, jaw clenching in anger.

_The victory over those animals, the angels._

“Don’t say that.”

_It’s just a fucking animal._

“He was, wasn’t he? He was a fucking animal and he hurt you so badly. Why can’t you see that I want to help you?” 

The tidal wave in his chest grows and grows, tears welling. “Dean, stop.”

“Why can’t you let me get to know you?” Dean yells. “I already let you in. Why can’t you?”

“Because it will ruin everything!” The wave crashes inside of him.

“Just tell me why!”

“Because I’m an angel!”

The only sound in the room is that of their breathing. Castiel’s eyes focus hard on the floor as his chest heaves. His hands tremble. 

He’s ruined it. It’s all gone. 

But…

What if Dean can understand? What if… Hope rises steadily in his chest. He glances up to find Dean’s green eyes on his and the strangest half smile, dusting his face. And then Dean laughs and Castiel’s chest deflates.

When he doesn’t join in, Dean meets his eyes once more, the half smile gone – replaced with something that looks like fear. “Cas?” His name falls from Dean’s lips so quietly, it’s almost a whisper. His eyes don’t hide the vulnerability that lingers there. “Cas, please. What are you…” He can’t even bring himself to finish the sentence. Castiel does it for him.

He closes his eyes and exhales. Dean stumbles backwards so quickly, he falls onto the floor with a heavy thud but his eyes don’t leave the long, black wings that arch from Castiel’s back. 

For a moment, that hope rages in his chest as Dean stares. But then the prince’s eyes fill with fearful rage.

Hope is a mistake.

“No, no, they’re not real,” he mumbles, eyes flicking back and forth from each wing. “This isn’t real, this is impossible. You’re not, you’re not--” his eyes finally meet Castiel’s and all he can see is disbelief mixed with fear. Wetness shines in his green eyes as his lips tremble. “You’re one of them,” he whispers. “You took her from me.” His voice raises now and Castiel can see the building fury rising inside of him. “You took away _everything_.”

Tears finally spill onto Castiel’s cheeks as he lets his wings disappear. “Dean, I didn’t--” But he’s already up on his feet, eyes harder than he’s ever seen them as he sprints across the room towards him.

“You took fucking everything!” Castiel can’t even will himself to move as Dean tackles him hard to the ground, knocking the wind from him. 

The first punch merely grazes the side of his face. “You’re one of them.” The next hits him square in the jaw but his hands only clutch tightly to Dean’s clothes. “You took her.” More tears spill down his face as Dean continues to beat him. “You killed her – you fucking animal,” he spits, and it’s hard to tell at this point which is his own tears, his own blood or the tears falling from Dean’s own face. 

“You made me fall in l--” Dean cuts off with a sob, his fists ceasing momentarily. “You made me fall for you.” Castiel’s shoulders start to shake as his chest tightens to the point of agony. But isn’t he used to this by now?

“Dean, please,” he begs softly. 

“Why aren’t you fighting back?” Dean’s voice cracks and his hands grip the collar of Castiel’s jerkin before he starts to shake him. “Fight back!” 

Dean lets him go, Castiel falling back to the floor heavily. Dean’s breath hitches as he tries to hold back his cries. Castiel wishes the floor would open up and swallow him. Instead, he tucks his knees up and kicks Dean hard in the chest until he sprawls backwards.

Dean curls onto his side, sobs wracking from him painfully. Castiel drags himself up until he’s sitting, spitting the mess of blood and tears from his mouth. His hands shake fiercely as he continues to cry silently.

“No, please, no, please, no,” Dean whispers over and over. 

Castiel drags himself closer and somehow after everything, he stills hopes. “Dean,” his voice cracks over his name and he has to grit his teeth to continue. “Please listen to me. They lied to you about everything.” He reaches a careful hand out to place on Dean’s shoulder but it’s immediately batted away. “Dean--” 

He’s once more shoved to the ground, Dean hovering over him with agony in his eyes and fear spikes in his chest when Dean’s hands close over his throat but before he can even try, Dean’s head hangs and he slumps over. His forehead rests on Castiel’s own gently as he continues to sob. 

Castiel lets his eyes fall shut, his hands fumbling for a piece of Dean’s clothing to hold onto as Dean’s own hands move from his throat to tangle in his hair. If he squeezes his eyes closed hard enough, he can almost imagine that they’re back in the hall on the very night Dean first kissed him. On the night that for a while, everything else faded away. 

“Dean,” he whispers, and that’s what breaks the spell, Dean shoving himself backwards, leaving Castiel lying bloody on the floor once more.

“Leave,” he begs, hands gripping his own hair tightly. Castiel rolls onto his feet slowly and falls to his knees down in front of him with a thud. Why does he hope like this?

“Dean, let me explain.”

Dean shakes his head. “Just leave.”

“Please, Dean, _please_ \--”

“I said leave!” Dean stands quickly, both hands reaching for Castiel’s collar and he yanks him up before dragging him towards the door, Castiel stumbling backwards to catch his footing as his hands scramble to hold onto him. He’s slammed hard against the door and Dean reaches down, undoing the lock and opening the door before throwing Castiel to the ground. 

Castiel cries out in pain, clutching at his side as he lands on the hilt of his sword but before he can even say something more, Dean is slamming the door closed.

He lets himself lie there, curled up on the floor. He’s too tired to start healing himself or even to try and wash the blood from his face.

The memories don’t even bother him. It’s as if the blood isn’t even there. For all he can feel is the pain ripping through his chest as he cries on the cold, hard floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. Sadly this month I've been struggling quite a lot and I was unable to get practically anything done. This means that I'm going to have to string out when I post once more. I've written up to Chapter 14 as of the moment, which isn't as far ahead as I would like so I'm probably going to try and post the chapters every three weeks or so and hope that while that's happening my health can improve and I can get back to writing. I don't really want to put down a date as of the moment because as you've all clearly seen, I'm never able to post at those times. So, you're all just going to have to bear with me through this next little while. I'll update after about three weeks if it isn't up by then. I'm really sorry for all of this :((( 
> 
> On another note, please, please, do not worry about me not finishing this story. I have a detailed plan of the entire thing mapped out and I've literally never been more passionate about anything, it's just that I don't have the mental capacity to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard :/) at the moment. If you do want some reassurance at any time though, please don't be afraid to drop me a message on my tumblr or even a comment here (although I take a bit longer to answer here as I check it much less). Anyways, thank you all for your patience and support. Your kind words really mean a lot. And once again, I'm really, really sorry and I wish things were different :(
> 
> UPDATE: I’m hoping to have Chapter 12 up on Thursday the 4th of October. Thank you all for being so patient. Much love <3
> 
> NEW UPDATE: Okay, I've actually 100% finished editing the chapter and it will 100% up on the 30th of October 8/9pm AEST time. Yay!!!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://angvlicmish.tumblr.com/)


	12. Chapter 12

Dean doesn’t even make it to the bed before he collapses heavily to his knees. There’s blood on his fists and tears streaming down his face but nothing is worse than the ache that spreads throughout his body – the ache that feels like it might shatter him. 

All this time. All this time Cas…

He couldn’t even close his hands over his throat. Couldn’t even attempt to squeeze the life out of him. Because all he saw were those pained, teary, blue eyes staring up at him. The blue eyes that had his heart fluttering in his chest, unable to look away. The blue eyes that stared right through everything and saw him – truly saw him. The blue eyes he fell for.

The blue eyes that deceived him. The blue eyes that belong to the wretched creatures that stole his mother from him – that nearly stole his home from him too if his father hadn’t found out about it. The blue eyes that for a moment terrified him. The fear threatens to spill onto the surface – all those nightmares he had after Mary was taken – of winged creatures in the night bubble up in his memory but he shoves it down hard. He can’t be scared. Not now. Not ever. 

How could he have let this happen? How could he have let an angel walk into his own home? Into his own--

He sits back on the wooden floor, pulling his knees up to his chest. He rests his head on top of them, shoulders shaking as he cries quietly. 

Betrayal sits heavily in his gut. How could Castiel do this to him? How could he listen to Dean’s deepest secret – listen to the pain and agony of his mother’s capture and act as if he even cared? When this entire time he was one of those animals?

He doesn’t know what to do. He should be thinking of a thousand other more important things but right now all he can feel is the ache in his chest. It splinters him, tearing him apart slowly as the minutes pass by. 

It’s unbearable. 

He grips his hair tightly with his blood stained hands until it hurts – until it _stings_. He wishes that all of this never happened. That Castiel would just disappear without leaving a trace of his existence behind. 

He wants it to be easy. 

But it won’t be. Nothing ever is.

And so, he sits, sobbing quietly until he’s almost certain that everything within him has been torn apart completely.

 

______________________________________

 

The door to Dean’s chambers opening is what wakes him – making him jerk up to his feet, a hand on the table for balance as Dean stands there in front of him. It’s just past dawn. Castiel barely slept, crying until he had no tears left to shed and healing all of his wounds before he subsequently passed out in the floor. 

Dean doesn’t look like he slept much either, dark circles framing his pained eyes. They flick all over Castiel’s face – most likely taking in the dry blood accompanied by no wounds. Dean knows now – what’s the point in pretending? There is no information on the wings in this castle so whatever he tells him he’ll have to believe. That’s if Dean will speak to him. Or will he just turn him in? Because if he does, that’s a different story entirely. If his judgement of the king is true, they would know about the wings and the possibility that Castiel himself could have them. And everything he’s worked for – suffered for – would be gone. It would be the end.

They stand there for a long few moments – the silence dragging on until Castiel can’t bear it anymore. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” he croaks out, voice rough. He swallows around the fear that builds inside of him as Dean says nothing, eyes still sweeping gently over his face. “You can’t.”

Dean’s eyes finally fall to the floor. “I won’t,” he says, sounding even more drained than himself but there’s an edge to it. The anger may not be at the forefront now but it’s still present. It doesn’t matter though. The relief is palpable and Castiel almost sinks to his knees right there and cries once more. “I mean, what could I possibly tell anyone? That you have invisible wings?” His eyes flick back up to wander over Castiel’s now healed face and his lips part as though he might say something more but eventually his eyes flick away.

So, at least for a little while, all is not ruined. Now he still has a chance. And he can easily spin a lie about his wings. Something that Dean can believe. And perhaps that’s a start. He can already feel the hope welling up inside of him. Perhaps if he can give Dean something to believe – then he might change his stance. Then he might come back to him. And Castiel can continue his mission just as it were before. 

He peers up under his eyelashes, face crusty from his tears and the dry blood. He has to at least try. Convince Dean that what he believes – what he thinks of the angels – is wrong.

“Dean, I--”

“You should wash yourself. I want to have trained before we have breakfast with Sam,” Dean says, voice only slightly shaky and Castiel’s heart sinks ever so slightly but he soliders on.

“Why won’t you let me explain?” And hearing his voice, he didn’t realise how desperate he sounds. Dean turns to walk towards the door and Castiel moves swiftly after him, reaching out. 

“Why won’t you just listen to me for one--” Dean whirls on him, gripping onto his jerkin with one hand and with the other grasping so tightly around Castiel’s wrist that he can feels his bones grinding together. Dean’s face is close and Castiel can practically feel the rage radiating off of him. But his eyes gaze downward not meeting Castiel’s own.

“Don’t try to talk to me,” he grits out almost painfully.

“Dean--” His eyes snap up then and they’re filled with tears that he tries his hardest to blink away – nothing to reflect the hardness in his voice and his grip. 

“I’ll _kill_ you.” And it feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room and his chest tightens so painfully that he fears it might crack but he only keeps silent, returning Dean’s hard gaze. Dean gives him one last shove before he lets go of him, swiftly turning his back and heading for the door. It closes behind him with a small click and Castiel’s left alone once more, that hope fading right before him.

 

______________________________________

 

Training is brutal. Much to his surprise, Dean takes them out into the fields but only just outside of the training hall itself giving them enough privacy for Dean to try and stare him straight into the underworld but not enough for them to speak freely.

And for that reason, neither of them speak at all. But Dean gives it his all and more, swinging his sword as hard as he can – something in which Castiel would chastise him for, if he did that in a real fight, he’d use up all of his energy far too quickly – but Dean knows that. 

Castiel on the other hand, only tries enough to parry Dean’s heavy blows and occasionally strike himself. 

After frustratingly not being able to get any strikes in, Dean’s shoulders slump and his arms drop, the sword’s point scraping the grass. Usually, Castiel would take this opening to teach Dean a lesson. Now he just stands, observing the man in front of him. The man he thought he could trust – the man who he let hold him and touch him.

The man who beat him and for an instant in time curled his hands over his throat. 

Dean runs a hand through his hair, gripping it so tightly it must hurt as he squeezes his eyes shut. As if he’s trying to rid this moment away. Castiel wishes he could to. A frustrated noise sounds at the back of Dean’s throat before he picks his sword up again and starts launching another attack on Castiel.

He evades and parries, spins and ducks at the onslaught of Dean’s wooden sword until he’s had enough and instead of constantly avoiding him, he meets his strike head on, holding it there as he challenges Dean’s glare. Dean’s teeth are gritted hard and this is no way to fight – either of them should be onto the next move by now but they both hold it, locked in this silent battle between them.

And when it becomes clear that neither will give up, Dean’s eyes darken and he spits right in Castiel’s face. 

His eyes close on instinct, stepping back as Dean shoves him away. Castiel wipes at his face in revulsion, dropping his sword to the ground. He can’t face Dean like this. Not when everything is still so raw. And so, he turns his back on him without hesitation and strides towards the castle. 

From the lack of footsteps or calls behind him it seems that Dean isn’t following.

When he makes it to his room, he slams the door closed behind him and without a second thought, picks up the wooden chair residing beside his desk and smashes it down onto the floor. It splinters into pieces but Castiel doesn’t even feel the satisfaction. He sinks down in front of one of the windows and peers out towards the horizon. And for as long as he can he imagines that this is all just a bad dream. That somewhere out there, his parents are waiting for him to run into their arms – that Kyra and Elaria are running through the hills laughing in the wind. That even Michael – the brother that he used to know is there with them with a helping hand and a warm smile. 

But there’s only hills that converge into forests and eventually drop off into the sea. And of course, the wall that stands between them. The wall that reminds him why he’s here – that reminds him why he has to keep going. And that this is much more important than Dean. It always has been.

It always will be.

 

______________________________________

 

His chest heaves with exertion as he watches Castiel disappear inside. This was a mistake. He can’t do this. He can barely even look at Castiel without all of it resurfacing – the pain, the anger, the betrayal. And the fear. Because Castiel isn’t just any angel that he’s ever heard of. An angel that can hide their wings and heal their wounds? What if all angels are like that? How many could be in this castle right this moment, how many in his city, how many--

His head spins and it’s all too much to take in – all too much to even think about. So, he stops. Just for the moment.

He doesn’t bother going after him. In fact, this is perfect. Now he can go off by himself for the first time in a long time. 

He makes his way though the castle swiftly, attracting a few eyes but with a feigned look of confidence, no one says anything about his lack of guard. 

He makes his way up the stairs and soon finds himself at the end of the hallway. Glancing back down he finds no one in sight and swiftly Dean slips through the door. Once the door is closed behind him, he sinks to the ground. 

It all rushes back. All of the heartache. All of the memories. Her last words before she was taken forever.

_“It’s okay, my son. It’s all going to be alright.”_

His face crumples as he whimpers, his head falling into his hands. If only she were here now. She would know what to do. She would tell him that all is going to be okay. And it would be. Somehow. Because she always made it okay.

But she’s not here anymore. The only thing left of her is this dark, cold room. 

This dark, cold room and the journal. 

Dean rises from the floor, making his way over to sink down beside the bed and fiddles with the loose plank. It comes away easily and he reaches inside to pick the journal out, just as heavy as he remembers. 

But he doesn’t want to even flip through it. Because most of it is about them. The angels. And her times with them – none of which describe anything of the savages that they were. Nothing of how they had planned this whole time to invade the castle and take it for themselves – nothing of betraying her, taking her against her will. 

If it wasn’t for her own personal guard, Ferrant, who heard through closed doors in Iowan of the angel’s plan and told Dean’s father, he wouldn’t even be here. None of them would be here. They would all have been slaughtered. 

But if it wasn’t for himself, then maybe she would--

_No. It’s not my fault._

It’s those wretched creatures’ fault and all their ways of living. Dean rests his head back against the wall in shame. For he’s like them now too. Did Castiel do this to him? Infect him with their ways?

His chest aches at the mere thought of it. Because even after his betrayal – after everything, what he feels for him…it won’t go away. No matter how hard he tries.

He huffs out a strangled, sad laugh. Because of course it won’t go away. He truly is broken. 

He doesn’t even realise his eyes a wet until a tear slips down his cheek.

He never thought he would feel an ache like that again, like he did that very night. But as he sits here now, it feels as though someone has dug a gaping hole inside his chest. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He remembers back to when Castiel was first dragged in that day, eyes challenging and dark. He wishes he’d just let them throw him in the dungeons. He wishes he never had to gaze into those eyes long enough to get lost in them. 

If only wishes would come true. 

The only thing he can do now is close his eyes and pray. To Leuric and Patrus – to whoever may be listening – but his lips can’t find words. He’s brought this on himself.

And so instead, he hangs his head and lets his shoulders shake as he whimpers and sobs between choked out breaths. For there’s nothing else he can do.

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel has been running through his fighting forms for hours when he finally hears Dean enter into the hallway and soon after enter his own chambers. Breakfast comes delayed – Hermana must have sent it after neither of them showed up in the kitchens – and while Castiel comes out for it – trying his hardest to put this all behind him now, the mission is more important – Dean does not.

Nor does he come out for lunch or dinner. And Castiel eats alone in the suffocating silence, repeating to himself that the mission comes first – _forever and always, forever and always_.

_Forever--_

He hears the smallest sound of movement coming from inside Dean’s chambers but as the minutes pass by, it’s clear he will not be emerging.

He breathes.

_\--and always._

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel nearly jerks backwards in shock the next morning when he enters the dining hall to see Dean, dressed and ready for the day before the breakfast in front of them. He fiddles with a knife, spinning it in his hand but it doesn’t look threatening. Dean only looks tired.

Castiel steps forward and takes his own seat when he realises Dean’s not going to meet his eyes. But he doesn’t reach for any food. They sit in the quiet on either side of the table, Castiel observing Dean but Dean only focused on the knife he twirls in his hand.

He’s not sure how long he waits but his eyes have drifted towards the sun peeking over the horizon through the tall windows when the sound of Dean’s knife slamming point first into the table has his head whirling back around. Now it most certainly looks threatening.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions and you’re going to answer them,” he says, voice perfectly calm but his eyes still don’t stray from the knife. “And they may not believe me when I say you’re an angel but they will believe me when I say you tried to kill me.”

So, this is it. This is what it’s come to. Dean threatening to throw him in the dungeons for life – maybe even have him hanged for something he didn’t do.

He can feel the emotion building in his chest but shoves it away. The mission comes _first_. He can’t let this hurt him any longer. He doesn’t even care if it comes across weak but he’ll give him an answer for everything if it means he can stay in this castle.

Dean glances up then, eyes narrowed to try and gauge his response. Castiel takes a deep breath before nodding. Dean deflates at that, leaning back in his chair.

He waits patiently as the prince glances to the ceiling, mulling over his first question. His gaze is devoid of any emotion when he finally speaks. “How can you hide your wings?”

Castiel bites his lips, glancing down. “It was a spell,” he responds, and for this he is telling the truth.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “A spell?”

He takes another deep breath. “I was sick when I was born. My wings were broken.” Dean’s face is blank as he talks. “I struggled for years. But on my tenth birthday, it was clear that I didn’t have long left. I was going to die.” Dean’s throat bobs and for an instant sadness flashes in his eyes. “They--” He pauses for a moment, cutting himself off. He can’t tell too much of the truth. Only enough for it to sound reasonable. “My parents, they found a spell,” he lies. “And it not only cured me and mended my wings but it…gave me the ability to hide them.” He pauses before he supposes he should mention it. “And to heal.”

Dean stares at him in slight disbelief and Castiel can almost see it all turning over inside his head. “And how many others can do this?”

Castiel furrows his brows. “Do what?”

“Hide their wings?”

He hesitates, not sure how to proceed. He supposes the only way he can is with the truth. “No one else. Only me.” But Dean only huffs a forced laugh and shakes his head.

“Right. And why would I believe you after all the lies you’ve told?”

Castiel grinds his teeth. “And after all the lies your father has told, you still believe him?” Dean’s eyes grow dark.

“What? I’m supposed to believe that you were sick and dying and some magical spell not only saved you but gave you this power and no one else used it for themselves?”

“It could only be done once.” Dean laughs even more hysterically now. 

“And how am I supposed to believe that? How am I supposed to know that other angels aren’t roaming this castle right this instant?”

“You _can’t_.” Castiel almost shouts, gritting his teeth to hold himself back. “I have no way of proving this to you, Dean, okay? So, you’ll just have to trust me.” Dean runs a frustrated hand over his face, shaking his head. They sit in silence for a minute or so, Dean fiddling with the knife once more. 

“And this…” he trails off, waving his hand vaguely between them, shame clear on his face. “Did you do this to me? Did you _infect_ me?” he asks, voice hard with accusation and Castiel has to take a moment to even realise what he’s talking about. But when he does, his heart sinks. And now it’s his turn to let out a strangled laugh.

“You must be desperate to believe that.”

Dean stands so suddenly that Castiel jerks back in his seat. “Desperate? Desperate to not be some vile fucking creature like you?” Castiel’s hands clench so hard where they rest on his knees that his nails dig into his palms. “In that case, yeah I’d say I’m pretty fucking desperate.”

His breaths are coming heavy now and he has to take a few moments before responding as calm as ever, “Tell me it’s not just me.” He punctuates his words slowly, observing the way Dean flinches back as if stung. “That’s what you said to me. Don’t you remember?” Dean’s grip on the knife tightens. “So, when you’re desperate enough, don’t forget that you came to me first.” They hold each other’s eyes for what feels like an eternity, Castiel watching closely for any sign that he might jump at him or lash out. But he only lets out a deep breath, eyes squeezing shut as he sits back down.

Castiel lets out a shuddering breath. He listens to the sound of boots on the floors outside their chambers as he waits for Dean’s next question. 

“And what of your parents? Your brother? Are they really dead?” Castiel swallows. 

“Yes.” Castiel waits for the impending one – the one that for the first time he wants to answer. _How did they die?_ Because maybe then Dean can learn the truth.

But when Dean opens his mouth, it’s the very question he doesn’t want to be asked. “And what about my mother? What did the angels do to her?” All words die on Castiel’s tongue. But he has to say something.

“Why would I know what happened to her?” 

Dean shakes his head. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to--”

“I was only a child when she went missing. How can you expect me to know any--”

“But you don’t deny that it was your kind that took her?” Dean says, voice raised as his eyes stare deep into his soul and Castiel feels as if all his secrets are written bare on his skin.

“They didn’t do it. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you--”

“And out of everything, that’s what you expect me to believe? I know it was you, I know it was you fucking animals that took her. Who else would have done it?” Rage flares inside of him and he can’t damper it. Maybe he should give him something to think about. Maybe he should give him something closer to the truth than he will ever get – something that will hurt him right back.

“Have you ever thought that perhaps it was someone on the inside?” Dean eyes narrow.

“What are you talking about?” And he knows he should stop because this is just cruel but he’s impulsive and angry and so damned tired of his kind being treated as the villains.

“Have you ever thought that it wasn’t angels who came and took her but someone inside this very castle who killed her and hid the body to blame it on the angels?” He can see it, then. Dean’s doubt. But he shakes his head, the grip on his knife tightening. 

“You’re a liar.”

“I’m a liar? All you’ve found out since I’ve been here is how much your father lies to you. Have you ever thought that maybe he was angry that your mother spent so much time with my kind?” 

At the mention of his father, Dean recoils violently, eyes filled with such utter disgust and hatred at even the mere suggestion. But the doubt still lingers. “Don’t try to sway me. Your people were going to wipe us out, you were going to take everything we had for yourselves and you were going to use her as bait,” he starts, voice growing stronger. “The only reason I’m here today is because someone found out what you were going to do and my father sent his soliders to stop you before you murdered us!”

“Murdered? What would you know of that? How do you think my family really died?” Dean swallows, Castiel’s words slowly dawning on him. “That’s right. I was there that day. As they were slaughtered in front of me. As they were _burned_ ,” he spits. He wants to go on, to tell Dean everything. That there was no plot – no war. Only an invasion. But he has nothing to back him up – nothing that Dean will believe. He hits home instead. “So, have you ever thought that your father was so angry that your mother spent so much time with us _vile creatures_ – that he took it upon himself to--”

“ _Don’t_.”

“--make us look even worse than we already did? To give _your_ people a reason to hunt down and slaughter every single one of us?” Castiel starts, voice raised.

“Shut up.” Dean’s jaw tightens, his shoulders tensing and he can’t stop himself now, all of his rage rising to the surface.

“Have you never thought that it wasn’t an angel that came in that night and took her but your own father who confronted her while she was alone with her guard--” 

“I said shut up!” 

“--murdered him before murdering her himself, burying the body, and blaming it all on us!” 

Dean snaps and in an instant he’s around the table with his hands on Castiel’s collar and is dragging him out of his chair to slam him against the wall. Castiel wraps his own hands around Dean’s wrists, holding them at bay as the knife bares its teeth near his throat.

Dean’s eyes are teary but his own ire shines through. 

“I said,” he starts, words slow and lingering. “Shut. Up.” 

Castiel swallows down the lump in his throat. “You said--” Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s wrist as he tries to push the knife further forward. He holds it there, eyes challenging. And calmly, as if taming a wild animal, he finishes. “You said that the angels took her to use her as bait.” Dean’s eyes well up with more and more tears and he can see he’s about to break. “If that’s true, why didn’t they?” The first tear falls. Because it’s true. The last Queen Mary was seen was entering her chambers with her guard. They never heard from her again. Another falls and Dean’s chest begins to heave. “And if the angels wanted to retaliate, to hurt you for what you had done to them, to _us_ , why was her body never found? Why was it never paraded around on a stick?” 

He can see it all falling into place. All the doubt and all the questions. Could his father have killed her, buried her and blamed it all on the angels for her betraying him for them? 

Even after it all, it crushes him to see. He’s let his anger get out of control. He’s pushed him too far. 

The only thing he can think of to say is, “I don’t know what happened to your mother, Dean. But don’t be so quick to blame my kind.”

Dean glances to the floor and Castiel watches as more tears slip down his face. He pulls at Dean’s now weakened grip on the knife and exhales deeply as it clatters to the floor. 

And that’s when Dean rears back, that fury in his teary eyes once more and swings at him. Castiel ducks just in time for the blow but when he lifts his head back up, he finds that Dean’s fist rests in a hole in the wall beside where his head lay. 

He turns his blue eyes on green. Dean trembles. With grief. With hatred. He stares him right in the eyes as he grits out one last word. “ _Animal_.” And then Dean turns and enters his own chambers, slamming the door so hard behind him that Castiel fears that it might tear off completely.

His own rage dissipates as he stays leaning against the wall.  

He’s lost. He doesn’t know where to go from here. Will Dean throw him in the dungeons for this? He should have just lied completely. Told him that the angels are vile creatures who took his mother and perhaps tried to explain that he, however, was different. Would that have even worked?

But it’s too late now. And now, how Dean will react to what he’s just told him could determine everything. 

His last chance would be to tell him the truth. Tell him everything. And hope he believes. 

For now, however, all he can do is wait. 

Shame and guilt washes over him, filling him to the brim. Surely his god was wrong about him. Because when he looks at all he’s done – the only thing he can see is failure. 

 

______________________________________

 

He strikes hard but Castiel only spins out of reach. Dean clenches his teeth, sweat dripping down his forehead. The rage fills his veins as he strikes once more only to have it parried. 

Castiel says something but he can’t hear him.

He hasn’t been able to hear anything since yesterday. Since--

_Have you never thought that it wasn’t an angel that came in that night and took her--_

Castiel strikes first this time and Dean sidesteps to avoid it but the wooden blade still clips his elbow hard. He’s blinded by rage. He wants to do something. He wants to hurt him.

Because it’s not true. None of it. It was the angels – those angels that--

_Why was her body never found?_

Dean strikes hard and fast, again and again but Castiel barely gets touched – barely works up a sweat. 

_Why was her body never found?_

He shakes his head, tears stinging his eyes. He can’t stop thinking – can’t stop denying. He didn’t sleep at all – he couldn’t even close his eyes. Not knowing that the person who could have killed his mother was lying just a few chambers – _no_.

He didn’t do it. He couldn’t do that. He loved her. He _loved_ her.

Castiel’s next strike catches him in the gut and he folds forward with a grunt. 

_Did he?_

Why would his father not tell him the very next day that she had gone missing? Could he have been trying to cover up his--

_No, no, no, no, no._

He’s losing his mind. And it’s all because of Castiel. It’s all because of an angel. And he wants to hurt him. He wants him to pay for all the pain that he’s caused him. How dare he fill his head with these lies and these doubts? 

Dean darts one way and swings his blade in the other but it only ends with Dean stumbling to catch his footing as Castiel still stands.

_Why was her body never found?_

He squeezes his eyes shut. He can barely breathe. 

_Have you never thought that--_

_Liar. Fucking liar. Fucking animal--_

He turns and throws his sword at Castiel, catching him off guard for a second and it’s all he needs to tackle him to the ground but Castiel’s swift to manoeuvre from under him and somehow, he finds himself pinned to the ground with Castiel above him.

His eyes are pained. _Liar_. _Animal_.

_I was there that day. As they were slaughtered in front of me. As they were burned._

Tears prick behind his eyes, threatening to fall. He wants to hurt him. He wants to--

“Dean, stop, please,” Castiel says, eyes begging. The hurt and exhaustion is etched into all of his features as he stares down at Dean.

Dean doesn’t even notice his own tears falling.

_Liar. Animal. Hurt him._

_Hurt him._

“Dean, please,” he whispers. “You can’t take this out on me. I was only a _boy_.”

_It’s okay, my son. It’s all going to be alright._

_I was only a boy._

Those words. So familiar. The same words that he pleaded at his father with. That he told himself over and over.

And he can’t do this. He can’t do this. _I can’t_ , “--do this. Let go of me. Let me--” He throws Castiel to the side as his own wrists are released and as fast as he can, he stands and runs to his horse, ties it off and mounts. 

Castiel calls his name behind him but he can’t do this. Everything’s falling apart. He doesn’t know what to believe anymore. He needs all of this to go away. So, he takes off, straight towards the woods, Castiel’s call echoing behind him.

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel stands frozen in the grass as Dean disappears into the trees. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he follow or stay behind? If he follows will it just incite more rage? But if he stays behind – in the state Dean’s in, he fears for his safety. 

But if he follows--

Castiel makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat that chokes off into a small sob.

How did he mess this up so badly? How could he let this happen?

None of this went the way he expected – even from the beginning. Why did Dean have to choose him as his guard? Why did Castiel have to feel things he shouldn’t feel? Why did he have to kiss him back? But most of all, why did he have to tell him? 

Surely his god left a long time ago for how would they let this happen? How could they let all of this lie in his hands?

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He just wants to go back – all the way back to when he was sick and dying in his bed. Maybe if he had convinced them to just let him die, that he wasn’t to be – then none of this would have happened. They wouldn’t have found out about his power. 

The subsequent invasion would have never occurred. All of the angels would be alive. His parents would be alive. Kyra and Elaria. His brother would be the good brother he always was. 

And Dean’s mother would still be here by his side to tell him what a good son he is. Meaning John would never have blamed him for that night. Meaning Dean would be a strong and proud prince. Not the broken, angry one he faces now. 

And all of it is because of him. 

Everything. 

He’s about to sink to his knees in the grass when he hears a shout. “Where has the prince gone?” a guard yells as he runs towards him, followed by a procession of more. Castiel sniffs, wiping at the tears in his eyes he didn’t even know had formed. 

“He’s just gone into the forest. It’s all part of a training exercise. I’m about to go after him now,” he says as convincingly as he possibly can before he strides towards his horse and unties it. 

The guard balks in his step, eyes narrowing. “He shouldn’t be going off alone. Training exercise or not.”

Castiel fakes a small laugh. “I know. But try telling that to him.” He mounts quickly, turning his horse towards where he saw Dean ride off. “Next time he suggests it, I can refer him to you.”

The guard’s face pales slightly. “No, that – you don’t need to do that. Just make sure that you are with him at all times.”

“I will.” He nods before finally breaking into a gallop towards the forest, eyes following him as he does. The mask on his face drops, and the grief almost swallows him. But he can’t let it. 

If he can apologise to Dean, perhaps he will let him be. And then he might have a chance to continue with the mission. Not all hope is lost. At least, it’s what he tries to tell himself. 

The tracks are easy to make out in the dirt and he follows them for a while on the familiar trail until he reaches the lake. Squinting through the trees that surround it, he makes out Dean’s horse tied up in its usual spot. 

“Dean?” he calls as he enters the clearing, not wanting to give him a fright. But as he pulls up beside the other horse, Dean is nowhere in sight. Castiel fights down the panic that threatens to claw up his throat.

He dismounts, tying his horse to a branch before stepping towards the water. He couldn’t have gone far. “Dean?” he calls again but there’s no response, only the chatter of birds and the distant sounds of waves crashing against the rocks. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry for everything I said.” He sweeps his eyes over the surroundings, looking for any sign of disturbance. He almost gazes over it. Almost. To the left of the lake, the heel of a boot print in the dirt.

Castiel strides over, eyes wandering to find any more prints or disturbed brush to locate a path. It seems that he’s continued further on towards the edge – towards the cliffs. Where no wall exists. 

He pushes through, careful to keep quiet. Because despite it all, there’s a certain fear that sits in his gut. Did Dean bring him out here for a reason? Is this a trap?

He almost shakes his head at the absurd thought but instead pulls one of the daggers from it’s sheath, clutching it tightly. Only a precaution. 

The waves crashing heavily against the rocks grow louder and it’s almost impossible to hear anything else – like someone moving up behind him. 

The panic and fear grows in his chest as his eyes dart around the forest, catching on swaying leaves and swooping birds. 

But no Dean. 

No Dean until he ventures out towards the edge of the cliff and with a sag in relief, spots Dean sitting a yard or so from the drop, arms wrapped around his knees. Castiel sheathes his dagger before Dean can see it and panic himself. 

“Dean,” he yells, and the prince jolts, head whipping around to see him standing at the edge of the treeline. His eyes are wide with fear for only a moment before it dissolves into misery. 

If he wasn’t so focused on Dean, he would be able to appreciate the beauty of the sun beginning to set over the water. 

“Leave,” Dean says, voice raised above the waves.

Castiel steadies his breathing as he feels the ground tremor beneath his feet with the force of the ocean crashing against it. “Come back from there. It’s dangerous.” 

Dean doesn’t respond nor does he move. 

Castiel lets his eyes close for a second before walking out to stand beside him. Dean pointedly looks out to sea, not acknowledging his presence. 

“Let’s just go back to the horses,” he starts, reaching a hand out to grab him, “and we can talk there.” Dean yanks his arm out of Castiel’s grasp, jumping up to his feet, his face hardened.

“Talk? You think I came out here to talk to you?”

“Dean, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry about what I said yesterday. I--” 

“Oh, you’re sorry now?” Dean’s breathing is uneven and now that they’re close it’s not difficult to make out the tear stains on his cheeks. “After you filled my head with all of--” His green eyes flash with panic. “All of those _lies_.” He barely spits out the sentence before he has to look away, attempting to shield the fresh tears from Castiel’s eyes. 

Castiel steps closer into his personal space, hand raised ever so slowly to gently caress Dean’s wrist but he barely grazes it before Dean shoves him harshly backwards.

Castiel’s hands clench into fists, frustration building inside of him. “We need to get back. It’s not safe out here.”

“Then leave,” Dean says, his own hands curled into fists at his sides, chest heaving ever so slightly.

“I’m not leaving here without you by my side. I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset, I was just trying--”

“You didn’t mean to make me upset?” Dean says, his laughter cutting off on a choked sob. “Then what the fuck did you mean by telling me those things?” Dean steps closer, Castiel instinctively stepping backwards. “I couldn’t fucking sleep after that – I couldn’t even fucking think without your words in my head. About my own _mother_.” 

Castiel doesn’t even know how to respond. He only wanted to clear the angels’ name. Spread in an inkling of the truth in Dean’s mind. Now he just wants Dean to forget about it. Blame the angels all he wants but Castiel needs to be here. But Dean barges on.

“Don’t you think I already think about it enough,” he grits out the last word to keep his voice from wobbling. “I mean, I told you, didn’t I? About that night. I let you in too. And this is what you do?”

Something snaps inside of Castiel at his words and he feels his own emotions welling up in his throat. “What about what you did?”

“What I did?” Dean asks, incredulous.

“Yes. What you did. Or do you not remember your hands around my throat?” Dean jerks back so harshly that it almost seems as if he’s forgotten about it entirely. “Trying to squeeze the life out of me after you’d beaten me bloody into the ground. And for what? Because I have wings on my back?”

“Because you’re one of _them_ ,” Dean spits.

Castiel’s eyes sting with tears at his hatred. “Yes. I’m one of them. And you still fell for me.” He doesn’t know where it comes from but he knows it now more than ever. Dean wouldn’t have kissed him or touched him like that if he hadn’t fallen for him. Why else would he risk it? If anyone found out, it could only end in shame and humiliation. And if he wasn’t a prince, possibly death. There’s no denying it now.

But Dean’s face only goes dark, as if those words are poison to his ears. “Don’t,” he warns. 

And now Castiel’s angry. Because he never did anything to Dean. He never made him fall for an angel. Dean did that all on his own and how can he possibly blame Castiel for it?

“Don’t what? Say you fell for me.” Dean’s hands clench and unclench by his side as his eyes start to tear up. “Because you did. I know you did.” 

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “No, you’re nothing to me.” The words catch him off guard, striking a chord inside of him that has his eyes stinging. But it only fuels his rage.

“Am I now?” he yells above the ocean. “Is that why you couldn’t do it? Couldn’t squeeze the life out of me?”

“I will if you don’t shut up.”

“No, you won’t. Because you fell for me.” And he wants to hear it, he _needs_ to hear it. “I know you did. Say it.” 

“ _Leave,_ ” Dean says, voice strained. 

“Just say it!”

Dean’s eyes are bright with tears when he looks up and it’s at this moment that Castiel’s ears pick up on the faintest sound of something whistling through the air.

His head whips around just in time for the arrow to pierce right above his breast – right above his heart – forcing him to step backwards.

And it’s at this moment that his foot finds there’s nothing to stand on and suddenly he’s falling.

His throws his arms forward, hands reaching out to purchase onto something but there’s only the flat, bare ground. His stomach drops, heart plummeting. 

He knows it’s at this point that everything important to him is supposed to flash before his eyes. His parents. Kyra and Elaria. The purple sunset of his home. The mission. Even his brother, Michael, before the invasion took him away. 

But all he sees is Dean, his eyes wide and mouth forming around his name. Then there’s strong hands reaching out to find his own, jolting him from falling any further.

And there’s a split second where Dean’s eyes harden and he thinks – he fears – that he will drop him.

But he’s swiftly being hauled back up onto the ground. There’s no time to rest though, Dean practically dragging him to his feet and pulling him all the way over to the treeline where he sits Castiel down against a large tree, kneeling down beside him.

“Cas,” he says, voice laced with panic. “Is it deep? Are you okay? Shit, are you--”

“I’m okay,” Castiel says, voice hoarse as he pulls the arrow from where it’s wedged. And physically he is. The arrow luckily is not deep and hasn’t seemed to pierce anything vital.

But his heart is pounding rapidly in his chest and fear sits in his gut as he looks out to the clifftop. And he cannot gather enough courage to look at Dean.

Instead he settles for saying he’s okay over and over until Dean nods jerkily and races off back into the forest to find whoever shot the arrow that now rests beside him, staining the ground red. Because it’s no intruder. The arrow has the clear seal of the Winchester’s.

He rips a small piece of cloth from the bottom of his trousers, careful not to reveal any scars and holds it against the wound.

He leans his head back against the tree, closing his eyes against the evening sun.

He’s not sure how long passes but the sound of boots crunching against the forest floor have him opening his eyes, his heart in his throat. 

From behind the tree somewhere, Dean shouts, “Cas! I’ve sent for a doctor and some maids. They’ll be here shortly.” 

A heartbeat later and there’s Dean, out of breath with anger in his eyes that’s slowly replaced with worry as he falls to his knees beside Castiel once more.

And he doesn’t say anything, only staring back at him.

Castiel’s chest caves like the waves breaking against the cliff and his shoulders shake as he begins to cry – loud sobs that wrack his body. 

All of this was a mistake. All of it. Leuric chose the wrong person for this. He wasn’t supposed to do this. He’s too reckless. He’s too weak. He’s too--

Strong arms wrap around him, hugging him to Dean’s chest and Castiel sobs even louder, hands clawing at Dean as he tucks his face into the crook of his neck. 

He only takes a moment to realise Dean’s shoulders are shaking as well. 

“I thought you were going to--” Castiel starts, throat tight, “I thought you were--”

“I would never,” Dean says, hands clutching tighter at Castiel. “I would never do that to you.”

Castiel bites his lower lip as his face crumples, trying his best to hold back the emotion. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean breathes, voice wobbly. “I’m so sorry. You were just a boy. You were just a--” He cuts himself off before his own sobs can tear out of him and he holds onto Castiel even tighter as if doing so will mean he’ll never have to let go. 

And Castiel doesn’t want him to. He wants to stay here forever. Through all his pain and misery, at least he has someone to hold him. 

“It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay,” Dean whispers and it’s almost as if he’s trying to reassure himself. Castiel still nods jerkily into the crook of his shoulder, attempting to reassure himself too.

The sound of the ocean drowns out behind them as the sun starts to sink below the horizon. As he cries freely in Dean’s arms, Castiel only now understands how desperate he is for Dean. How desperate he is for his touch. For his warmth.

And perhaps how desperate Dean is for him.

Is this what love is?

Or is this just two broken people finding comfort in the other?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything. And he’s not sure he wants to. 

It’s not until the sound of others arriving do they let go of each other but even then, Dean stays beside him, eyes soft, touches softer.

 

______________________________________

 

From Dean discussing with the doctor and maids what happened to him, Castiel understands that it was Nicolaus who had attempted to follow him into the woods under the pretence of being concerned for the prince’s safety. And took the shot as it appeared Castiel was being ‘aggressive towards the prince’ which Dean denied, claiming they were having a small argument about training. He might have been enraged at Nicolaus’ petty attempt to murder him so that he could take his rightful place beside Dean if he wasn’t so tired of everything. 

It didn’t take long for the doctor and maids to figure out the wound wasn’t deep and not in need of any serious attention. Castiel refused to be bandaged there and then, holding another clean piece of cloth he was given against his wound the entire ride back to the castle after Dean, by himself, trekked to the lake to gather their horses, still not wanting anyone else to discover it. Although if Nicolaus found it, Dean did not say.

Eyes were on them from each and every direction as they approached the castle but no one said anything or came over as despite Castiel’s small wound, the prince looked immaculate as ever. 

Alissande was called upon to help bandage his chest, not asking any questions but eyes sympathetic as she went about it. Dinner passed quickly with Sam chatting away, a nice distraction that Castiel himself asked for.

And now after a short, lukewarm bath, Castiel lies on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling. His chest still aches from letting everything out but his mind hurts the most with the amount of thoughts that churn through it. What happens now? Do they go back to pretending everything is normal? Do they continue with whatever it is between them while Castiel continues with the mission? Surely Dean will ask questions, more questions with answers that Castiel can’t give. And not only because it could put the mission at risk but also because his answers might be too absurd for Dean too handle. 

He just wants to sleep. But he can’t seem to calm the rate of his heart nor the panic that lingers in his gut as he considers the future. 

The sound of his doorknob turning has him whipping his head to the side, hand reaching instinctively for the sword at his bedside. But he retracts it when he sees it’s only Dean. Dressed in his nightclothes with his feet bare, the prince stands in the doorway, the light from their dining hall illuminating the soft lines of his face. 

He lies still in his bed, eyes meeting Dean’s in the dark. He swallows when Dean gently shuts the door and slowly pats his way over to him. He doesn’t say anything as Dean lifts the sheets and slips his body under them, lying on his side – close enough that Castiel can feel his heat but not close enough to touch him.

Castiel lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes slipping shut. They lie in a silence for what feels like forever when Dean shifts beside him and then there’s an arm wrapping over his stomach and a leg being splayed across both of his own and Dean’s entire body is pressed up against his side. 

His warm breath on his neck has Castiel turning his head to lean into it. Dean’s eyes are soft in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the hardness that was there not too long ago. Dean’s arm lifts from his stomach and Castiel’s breathing is strained when his palm rests on his cheek, thumb grazing over his skin lightly as if brushing away phantom tears.

His green eyes flick to his mouth, face edging hesitantly closer and Castiel doesn’t stop him. Only letting his eyes flutter closed as Dean’s lips brush against his own, as light as the touch of a feather. Dean swallows, head dipping and lips disappearing. Castiel’s heart rate finally begins to slow as Dean’s arm moves back down to curl over his stomach and he presses his face into the side of Castiel’s head, nose nudging Castiel’s cheek.

And he lies there, his chest rising and falling gently with every breath. Castiel’s own breathing steadies and he finds his mind clear, his eyes slipping shut as he basks in this feeling. 

After a long silence, Dean finally shifts, lifting himself from the bed and Castiel’s heart lurches in his chest. He reaches out to grab him – to secure a hand around his wrist. “Stay,” he whispers, not even trying to hide the desperation. Dean’s eyes are almost…relieved. “Just for a little while.”

Dean hesitates only for a moment before lying back down and with his arm in place and head buried in the crook of Castiel’s neck, he stays. 

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel wakes after dawn, curled towards where Dean lay – now an empty space. He doesn’t remember Dean leaving. He must have left after he fell asleep.

He reaches a hand out, brushing over the crumpled bedding in front of him. He’s not sure what he expects now. What will Dean say? What will Dean want?

The only thing he can do is face him once more. So, he rises, dressing slowly and breathing deeply to calm his nerves. The dining hall is empty. No Dean or breakfast waiting for them. Another deep breath and Castiel pushes forward.

Swinging open the door to the prince’s chamber, Castiel finds the man himself dressed in his undershirt and trousers, pausing in the midst of pulling on his boots as he glances up at Castiel’s entrance.

He swallows audibly under Dean’s gaze. But there’s nothing fierce about it. It’s soft and yet somehow filled with sadness.

Dean finishes tugging on his boots before resting his hands on his knees and gazing out through his balcony windows. His hair is ruffled, lips pursed and the dark bags under his eyes remain. 

He exhales deeply, standing from his bed to face him and his eyes glimmer with the beginning of tears. “I--” he starts, but cuts himself off before he can get any further. Castiel stays silent, not knowing what to say. Dean takes another breath, steadying himself. “I’m sorry.” His voice cracks over the words and he flicks his eyes to the ceiling.

Castiel takes a deep breath of his own. “It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not.” Dean sniffs, gritting his teeth. And he’s right. It’s not. But he can’t go on with it lingering in the back of his mind. He has no choice. He has to move forward. It’s what Michael would tell him to do.

“Well, it is for now.” Dean’s eyes find him then, guilt and gratefulness clashing together. He nods jerkily. 

“Okay,” he breathes, and Castiel’s feels a slight weight lift from his shoulders. Dean runs his hands over his face, scrubbing his eyes before making his way over to his desk and slumping down in the chair. Castiel hesitantly makes his own way over to stand in front of it.

He sighs before saying, “I will try my best to argue for punishment of Nicolaus but it’s unlikely anything will come of it.” Castiel nods, understanding. He didn’t have any hopes up for it anyway. The only thing to come of it is that his body is now more on alert than ever for Nicolaus and his friends.

“Thank you, Dean.”

There are a few beats of silence before Dean speaks again.

“So, you’re an angel,” he says, and Castiel nods slowly. They lull into silence, Castiel observing Dean as he ponders over what else to say. And then, “Can I – can I ask you some questions?”

Here they come. More lies. “Of course.”

“Why are you still here?” Castiel blinks. If Dean didn’t sound so unsure of himself, Castiel would almost take it as an insult. Does he not want him to be here?

“What do you mean?”

Dean sighs. “I mean, you’re an…angel. And I know you said you have nowhere to go but isn’t this the last place you should be. It’s…” Dean’s pauses, eyes hesitant. “It’s dangerous for you here.” Oh. He almost sinks in relief. It wasn’t what he thought Dean was asking. But what of his answer? He can’t tell him about the mission. And will ‘nowhere to go’ be enough now seeming that Dean is right. It is dangerous for him here. 

But he realises then, that the answer is right in front of him. He doesn’t want to mouth it. Because it’s a lie. Isn’t it? 

“I stayed because of you.” His heart aches at the expression on Dean’s face. It’s almost disbelief. Disbelief mixed with pain. Until slowly it blooms into something else. Some small kind of joy. And Castiel hates it. Because it’s a lie. He’s not here for Dean. Perhaps in another life he might have been. But not this one.

The small, “Really?” is enough to drive it home. Castiel swallows. 

“Yes.”

Dean looks to his desk, a hand scratching at the back of his neck. He nods. “And you can really heal people?” 

“Only physical wounds.” They didn’t know at the time what the spell would give him. His wings were healed at once – a miracle. But it took a while for him to discover his new abilities. He was running through the fields with Kyra and Elaria on his heels – both yelling at him to slow down – when it happened.

_His legs give out from underneath him as his foot catches on a bump in the ground. He tumbles forward, wings curling around in front of him to soften his fall. He lands with a thud, winding himself. Kyra and Elaria are standing above him in an instant, eyes filled with concern. But he is not concerned. He’s never felt happiness like this. He’s finally free._

_“Cas, are you okay? Where are you hurt?” Kyra says, bending down to pull him into a sitting position._

_“Hey, Cas. It’s okay,” Elaria says, reaching out towards his face and Castiel’s not sure what she’s doing at first before she swipes a thumb over his cheek and it comes away wet from tears. He’s so happy he didn’t even realise he’d starting shaking. The tears slip out in relief, as if the ocean has built up and up inside of him until it almost crushed him, but now the wall has crumbled down and everything can finally flow freely._

_Free._

_The sisters hold him in their tight embrace, his own hands clutching tightly at both of theirs. And then, Elaria jumps in fright, a small scream leaving her lips as she scoots back from Castiel._

_“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks, spinning his head around to look for anything out of the ordinary. And that’s when he sees it. His wings flickering in and out of his eyesight._

_“Cas,” Kyra breathes. “What’s happening?” Panic bubbles in his throat. Until Kyra speaks again – always the level headed one. “The wings. It has to be.”_

_Castiel curls his wings around him, still flickering in and out sight. He closes his eyes and concentrates hard on something – anything. “There!” Elaria says, and he opens his eyes to his wings returned once more. “How did you do that?” The sister’s both look at him in anticipation, eyes wide in wonder._

_Castiel shrugs. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t know.”_

_“We should get back. Show your parents what you can do!” Kyra says, excitedly, grabbing his hand and hauling him to his feet._

He still remembers the look of wonder on his parents face and although there was a slight hint of jealousy in Michael’s eyes at first – he had been struck with wonder by the sight too. He had practiced hard after that. Everyday, trying to hone his abilities. He remembers the first time Elaria stuck her hand through his invisible wings only to find nothing to feel there – they were just gone completely. He remembers the first time he discovered that his broken wings were not healed because of the spell itself but because of the new wings ability to heal –Kyra had scraped her knee trying to climb a tree to prove to Elaria that she could reach the top. Castiel had only placed his hand beside the wound when the skin had started to stitch together. Another miracle.

All of it. A miracle. 

Until none of it was a miracle. Until all of it was a curse.

Dean holds his hand out in front of him, palm facing up. “Show me.” Castiel stares at his palm for a long second, flicking his eyes up to find Dean waiting patiently, eyes for the first time in a long while filled with that very wonder. 

So, he obeys, slipping a dagger from his sheath and carefully slicing the blade over Dean’s palm, watching as the blood trickles out. Dean doesn’t so much as hiss, his eyes now fixed on Castiel. 

Castiel reaches his hand forward slowly, fingers out and presses them down onto the wound. It closes in an instant, the blood that pools in the centre of his palm the only evidence that the wound was ever there. Dean sits back in awe, staring at his palm. He opens his mouth once, twice, before closing it again. Castiel can see more and more questions piling in. 

“Did you… did you heal my wrist?” Castiel’s lips part. He had almost forgotten. He nods and something like guilt flashes through Dean’s eyes. 

“Okay,” he mutters softly. “And…” Dean’s eyes flick down to his desk in front of him. “And is this why we couldn’t--” Castiel’s chest tightens. “Is this why you left? Because you’re an angel.”

And Castiel wishes it were true. It would still be complicated, god, would it be complicated. But it wouldn’t be this complicated. Castiel finds his throat closing up just thinking about it. Thinking about how one day he’s going to have to leave this castle. And if he ever comes back – it will be to go to war. 

He nods, careful not to show the emotions that lie just below his skin. 

“You weren’t scared because I was a man. Because the angels – they…” Dean trails off, already knowing the answer. Because in the angel’s culture this is allowed. It’s not blinked twice at. And why should it be? A soul is a soul. And it knows no bounds. Especially when it comes to love. Although right now, Castiel wishes it did. He wishes it knew how to close itself off, guard it from anyone’s look or touch. Or a certain prince’s touch.

“No,” Castiel says, mouth dry as he finally speaks. “And I’m sorry I left. But I was – I was worried you would react…poorly.” Dean casts his eyes down but Castiel doesn’t miss the regret that passes over his face. “I shouldn’t have let it happen.” And it’s true. He should have known. He should never have let it go so far. But he’s weak. 

Dean sits quietly for a long moment, eyes glazed over. His voice is strained when he says, “Well, it’s happened now. And I--” He cuts off abruptly, swallowing audibly before continuing. “And neither of us can change that.” 

Castiel wonders what he was going to say. That he wouldn’t go back and change what happened? That no matter what – no matter that Castiel is an angel, that he would still want this? Castiel himself doesn’t know what he would choose. If he could go back. The world would be better off without this mess, wouldn’t it? 

“And what of the war?” Dean asks suddenly, breaking his train of thought. And there’s that word again. War. He itches to correct it. But he doesn’t know what he can say to justify it. Dean’s eyes and voice are soft as he speaks. “You said you were there that day. What…happened to you?”

He can feel his heart pounding in his chest. What is there to say? He didn’t prepare for this. He should have. He should have prepared the very night Dean found out he was an angel instead of sobbing miserably on the ground. He should have prepared last night instead of finding comfort in the space of Dean’s arms. And now Dean is waiting patiently for his answer, eyes wide as he leans forward on his desk. 

Castiel grasps onto any courage he can find. “There’s not much to say,” he starts, throat already tight. “Everything was fine one moment. There was a festival being held at the royal castle. Almost everyone was there.” He swallows. “It only meant that it was easier for the soldiers to slaughter everyone.” 

Castiel takes in another shaky breath. “I tried to find my parents amongst all the chaos. And I did.”

_“Castiel, run!”_

The screams echo in his head as he remembers. “I watched them be slaughtered in front of me.” Dean looks away then, exhaling deeply. “I was ten,” and something like anger rises in his voice. “All I could do was run and hide. Hide with all the other dead bodies and pretend I was one of them. It wasn’t hard. Since they were everywhere.” 

_He’s drowning._

His lower lip trembles and he has to bite down hard on it before Dean can see. But Dean glances up then and he allows it to anyway.

“I’m so sorry, Cas.”

Tears well up. He’s never spoken of it before. Michael never did. It was just something they had to live with. He wipes the back of his hand over any tears that threaten to fall, shaking his head. “Luckily my brother survived and I was able to find him after. He trained me to fight for the next few years until he died himself so that I would never be so helpless again.” Not the full truth. It wasn’t the main reason Michael trained him of course. But he knows that it was a small part of it.

Castiel sniffs once and wipes at his face again. He shoves the emotions down, down, down. No more vulnerability. No more weakness.

“Cas, I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that. None of you deserved that. But--” Castiel braces himself for the blow. “But were the angels really going to attack us? Was it true?” The tension in his shoulders release. It’s not as bad as he anticipated. At least Dean is asking questions.

Castiel shakes his head. He wants Dean to know the truth – that the angels would never have even thought of slaughtering others. But the truth is too far. The truth is too much. “I don’t know, Dean,” he lies. “I was only a boy.”

Dean nods, eyes understanding. “And…my mother?”

A small breath. If he tells him part of the truth – that it was no angel that took her from her chambers then it will only hurt Dean. Make him believe more and more that it was his father in cold blood. It might kill him. “I don’t know. What I told you…I was only trying to hurt you.”

The relief is clear in Dean’s eyes but there’s hesitance there too. It’s too late. Castiel’s already made him question everything. And he’s not going to simply forget something like that. “And what do you believe?” 

Castiel lifts his chin and the smallest amount of pride swells inside his chest. “I believe that none of it is true. My people were good. They would never harm an animal let alone a human without the right reasons. They were kind and generous. And accepting of people like me.” He pauses, observing Dean’s jaw tightening. “Of people like you.”

Dean doesn’t flinch or retort in revulsion like he expects. He holds his gaze and something like sorrow blooms in his eyes. And maybe, just maybe, the smallest hint of relief. He glances away then, and Castiel stands observing as the seconds pass by in silence. It’s only when the minutes start to pass that Castiel understands Dean’s finished with all his questions and is unsure of what to say. 

Castiel voices his thoughts for him, anxiety growing. “What happens now?” He tries not to think too hard about what Dean’s answer might be. Because he knows deep down that one answer will hurt him more than he’d like to admit. Even though it shouldn’t. 

Dean’s eyes find his own and he takes a deep breath before he stands from his chair and rounds the desk to face Castiel. Castiel’s heart flutters in his chest.

Dean’s eyes are hesitant, his tongue poking out to wet his lips. And then, “Show me them.” Castiel pauses for a few seconds, chest starting to heave. And then he does, his large, black wings appearing behind him, the feathers ruffling.

A hundred different emotions seem to pass over Dean’s face. There’s shock, wonder, amazement and even sadness. But most of all that fear still lingers and Castiel can tell Dean is trying to suppress it. He tentatively raises a hand, inching ever closer and Castiel waits in anticipation for his touch. But it never comes and Dean lets his hand fall, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I just – I can’t--” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for Castiel to understand. He can’t look at them. Not with everything he used to believe about the angels and his mother – perhaps even still believes. 

Without even blinking, Castiel’s wings disappear. Dean’s eyes fill with guilt once more. “I’m sorry, Cas. I wish things were easier but I just--”

“It’s okay, Dean.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I understand.” 

Dean holds his gaze for a second before nodding. Castiel’s eyes widen and his lips part slightly when Dean steps forward, close enough that they’re almost touching. He didn’t expect this. Not now. Right after that. 

“Do you…” Dean releases a shuddering breath that warms his lips. “Do you still want…” Green eyes peer up under long eyelashes. And Castiel’s heart squeezes tight. It’s almost painful with everything that rages inside of him. But there’s no reason for it. Because despite all his conflicting emotions, the answer’s been there for a while now. As clear as day.

“Yes,” Castiel breathes and Dean’s breathing has sped up, hot on his skin as he leans forward, their foreheads resting together lightly. He grasps at Dean’s jerkin as two hands caress his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. 

They breathe together. Just like that. In the light of day locked away in Dean’s chambers. 

The kiss is merely a graze of lips at first until Dean pushes closer, harder, their noses knocking together as Castiel holds on tight. His breaths are shaky when they part. The quiet is all around them as they stand together, grasping onto each other. 

Even the sound of someone knocking at the hallway door isn’t enough for Dean to jump away. He only steps back slowly, hands falling from Castiel’s face. His own chest heaves from the quiet moment. Where everything else seemed to fade away. And it was only them. The knocking persists and Dean finally makes his way to his chamber’s door – most likely someone asking if they would like to be served breakfast. 

Castiel sags in disappointment. But also relief. He doesn’t know how to handle this.

But when Dean reaches the door he pauses, turning back to face Castiel. And with sad eyes he asks, “Did all the angels die? Are you the only one left?”

Castiel swallows around the lump in his throat. “I don’t know. The last one I knew of that survived was my brother.”

Dean casts his eyes to the floor for a moment, biting his lip. “Well, for your sake, I hope you’re not the only one.”

Castiel blinks, taken aback by his answer. Dean nods, slipping from his room to greet whoever it is still knocking out in the hallway. 

He’s not sure if his answer is a good thing or a bad thing. A good thing because it means that Castiel is making him fear the angels less – hate them less. Even after his whole life of believing the lies he was told.

And a bad thing because one day, one day soon, he might regret those words. 

 

______________________________________

 

Reyne wakes with a start, sweat dripping down his forehead. It’s one of those nights. The ones with nightmares. Or more accurately, memories. A peek out the window shows it’s still dark but multiple people are already bustling around. He must have overslept. He sighs, rising from his bedding. 

He dresses quickly, pulling on his trousers and boots before strapping his cloth around his chest. The thin cotton shirt and the beige jerkin that compliments his dark brown skin slide on easily after that. And with his belt buckled and his sword sheathed, he is ready for the day. 

The breeze ripples his skin, sending tingles up his spine but over the years he’s found that he doesn’t mind it. It can be too much sometimes when there’s a storm, especially since they’re right next to the cliffs that drop down into the ocean but when it’s like this, he finds it peaceful.

“Morning, Reyne.” Reyne nods in the direction of those in the vegetable garden.

“Morning. Let me know if you need any help and I’ll send one of my soldiers over. Don’t want anyone straining themselves.” A chorus of thank you’s follow as he continues on. 

He can smell the cooks already getting something ready in the kitchen hut as he observes six people working to pull water from one of their wells. 

“Captain Naydou, sir!” Reyne whips his head around to find Xandria running towards him. He smiles. She’s only young. Eighteen. And yet, already one of his finest soldiers and most determined. Especially since she is the last of her ancestry line that travelled to Torrin from Yeoji all those years ago. Her dark hair is braided tightly, falling past to reach her shoulder blades. It will have to be cut soon. Long hair is not preferable in battle.

“Xandria. What is it you need?” 

Xandria stands to attention, hands behind her back and spine straight. 

“Nyree and Michael have called a meeting for midday.” Reyne nods. They have meetings often. This is nothing out of the ordinary. It’s her next words that have Reyne’s eyes narrowing. “It’s about Castiel.”

Reyne smooths a hand over his shaved head, wondering whether he’s in trouble. But it’s most likely not the case. If Castiel was in trouble all alarms would have been raised by now. “Thank you, Xandria. Will you be at training this morning?”

“Unfortunately not, sir. I am to guard the barrier today.” Reyne nods.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Xandria nods before taking off in the opposite direction. The sun is well and truly peeking over the horizon now, lighting up the large clearing in front of him that he steadily makes his way towards. Those waiting for him quiet down as he stands at the front. 

“Form,” he says, voice raised. The soliders form up, standing in position. “Draw your weapons.” All at once, they draw their swords. 

Reyne feels that breeze again, ruffling his golden wings and the hundreds of wings – small and large – black and brown – white and gold – that spread out in front of him.

Peace. This is how they get there. 

“Begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special shoutout to the wonderful [Robin](http://mantiquesanderectables.tumblr.com/) for helping beta the introduction of Reyne, my first trans character :D
> 
> I'm back! Hey, everyone, thanks for all your support and patience. As most of you know I struggle a lot with depression and anxiety and unfortunately fell into a bit of a slump in the last few months. But even when I got out of it, I realised one of the big things holding me back from editing this chapter was that I disliked so much of it. Luckily, I was able to get back into gear, edit and rewrite it to the point where I liked it and here it is now! I'm not going to put pressure on myself to get it up back to the normal one week schedule but I hope for the next chapter to be up next month (possibly three weeks?). Feel free to ask me for updates on my tumblr or down below (although I'm much quicker to answer on tumblr).
> 
> If anyone is interested, I will be posting a small, fluffy ~16k fic at the end of November, which I was able to finish in my slump. If you want to be tagged for when I post it or just want to check out the summary, head to this post [here!](http://angvlicmish.tumblr.com/post/179451628431/ive-never-really-done-this-before-but-would)
> 
> Hope you all are doing well and let me know in the comments if you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://angvlicmish.tumblr.com/)


	13. Chapter 13

Dean can barely concentrate in his lesson with Orderic. Castiel is nowhere to be seen, having disappeared into the shelves not too long ago but he still flicks his eyes around every minute or so, longing for the sight of him.

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to make it through the day. Not after everything that’s happened. And certainly not after this morning. Or last night. His arm resting over Castiel’s stomach as it rose and fell. The warmth of his skin. He could have stayed there forever. But it’s not that simple.

_What happens now?_

Dean doesn’t know. He wonders if Castiel does. Does he know what he wants? 

_I stayed because of you._

Castiel is in the single most dangerous place that he could possibly be and despite that, he stayed because of Dean. His heart swells at the thought. But something else lingers there. Something that doesn’t make sense. Because the two of them, while improving, weren’t the best of friends in Narla, let alone anything more. Why did Castiel stay then? Surely it wasn’t for Dean. Surely, he didn’t fall for him that quickly. After all that happened between them. And surely there was another, safer place he could have been rather than here.

When he left for the Ellwood Forest, at least Dean understands why he came back then. They had already let each other in. So, despite Castiel’s fears, he came back. 

Orderic rambles on beside him as the shame and guilt creeps into his heart. Castiel told him. Castiel trusted him. And what had he done? Beat him bloody. Try to close his hands over his throat.

And Castiel had only told him that it was okay. He can’t fathom why he would still want to be here after that, let alone let Dean touch him again. But in that moment – in that dark, terrifying moment when wings appeared before his eyes – Dean couldn’t think of anything else.

_It’s okay, my son. It’s all going to be alright._

He couldn’t think of anything else but her last words. The last glimpse of her as she disappeared out into the hall. That feeling in his chest when his father told him she was gone. It had crushed him. And crushed him even further when his father raged at him a month later after no word from her and told him it was his fault. 

It crushed him the most, however, when he started to believe himself that it was true. But at the very centre of it, always there in his mind, were the angels. The angels that were going to wipe them out – the angels that took her from her rooms.

But now…now he doesn’t know what to believe. Were the angels really planning to wipe them out? Or was his father jealous of Mary spending her time their so often – trusting them and even becoming friends with them? Did he kill her in cold blood to blame them – to give the rest of Torrin a reason to want to slaughter the angels for their crimes?

He’s not sure he wants to know. But he needs to. When all of this has settled, maybe he can ask Castiel for help with getting to the bottom of this. 

Orderic closes his books just as Castiel appears in front of him, eyes bright and back straight. 

But for now, he needs to get through this first.

 

______________________________________

 

“So, you and Castiel are still avoiding each other,” Sam states abruptly as they wander through the garden. 

“No, we’re not,” Dean says, far too quickly. It’s partially true. They’re much better than they were the last few days but they’re still avoiding each other to a certain extent. 

This is still new to both of them. And after everything that has been revealed, things aren’t the same. They’re hesitant around each other. Both trying not to step on each other’s feet. 

Sometimes, Dean even finds himself staring at Castiel’s back as if he can squint hard enough, he might see his wings. Even when he bathed Castiel that time, after he went to the dungeons, there was no sign that anything was ever there. Only the scars and smooth skin in between. Not even a bump to signify something might lie beneath. 

But when Castiel showed him just this morning, as he stood so close and yet so far away, they were real. 

They were beautiful.

And yet, they were terrifying. It’s something he never really thought about. It was a given that he hated the angels. But he’d never really thought about what would happen if he ever saw one. He never acknowledged that he not only felt hatred towards them but fear.

But the look in Castiel’s eyes – the disappointment, the sadness – it had gutted him. He can’t only have a part of Castiel. He has to have all of him or none of him. And there’s no doubt which one he’d choose.

“Then why do you barely speak to each other?” Sam asks, and for a moment Dean finds himself staring at Castiel’s half turned figure, forgetting that his little brother is even there beside him.

Dean exhales deeply. “We’re still figuring things out,” he mutters softly. He can feel Sam’s gaze sympathetic on the side of his face. “But for the most part things are fine. Okay?”

Sam’s shoulders slump. “Finally. I didn’t like it when you were fighting.”

Dean chuckles, ruffling the young prince’s hair much to his dismay. “Me neither.”

 

______________________________________

 

Dinner was in the kitchen with Sam and Mervyn and Castiel honestly wishes it could have gone on forever. He doesn’t want to go back to their rooms. Where they are alone in the small, suffocating space. 

Even though they seemed to work most of it out this morning, that’s only the half of it. His chest tightens with anxiety now as they make their way back and it’s a slight relief to see the tension in Dean’s shoulders – to see he’s not the only one.

The room is dark as they enter, Castiel closing the hallway doors behind them. When he turns, Dean is standing there beside the dining table, waiting. 

Castiel meets his eyes, hands hanging awkwardly by his side. It’s Dean who speaks first.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits softly – almost shy. Castiel swallows down his nerves.

“I don’t know how either.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a deep breath.

“Okay,” he says. Castiel’s eyes fall to the floor. Dean huffs a small laugh but it’s strained. “Okay,” he whispers once more before taking a step forward. 

And another. And another until he’s right there in his space and slowly, so slowly, his forehead meets Castiel’s own and it rests there, Dean’s fingers lightly grazing his hips, Castiel’s own grazing the prince’s stomach. Dean’s breath is warm in the cool night air. And Castiel wishes it could all be this simple. Wishes it could always be like this. Just them, breathing together in each other’s hold.

The sound of loud boots crunching outside has both of them pulling away. 

It’s never that simple. 

Dean clears his throat and if it wasn’t so dark, Castiel might think that he’s blushing. “Goodnight, Cas,” he mutters.

“Goodnight, Dean,” he responds softly, hands clenched tightly at his sides. Dean stands for a moment, looking as though he might say something – might do something – but he only nods his head and swiftly enters his own chambers, closing the door quietly behind him. 

Castiel lets out a heavy breath.

He needs to keep on track with the mission. Everyone is counting on him. And yet, his heart tugs him so strongly in the wrong direction. Is it so bad if just for a few days, he lets himself indulge? It’s here now, anyway. He doesn’t think he could stop himself if he tried. And even if he could, it would break Dean. 

Castiel sighs, shaking his head. It will break him anyway when he leaves. 

And there’s nothing he can do about that. 

 

______________________________________

 

“Do you want to go to the lake?” Dean asks before his courage can disappear. Castiel opens his eyes to glance in his direction. They just finished training this morning. It was…awkward to say the least. Everytime Castiel was above him or beneath him all he wanted to do was kiss him. But he restrained himself. Not out here in the open. And even if they were in private, he’s not sure if Castiel wants that anyway. Because he’s never made the first move. And Dean’s almost certain it has to do with his scars. It’s hard enough to let someone touch him, let alone touch someone of his own doing. 

But it always leaves Dean unsure. He knows Castiel wants something. But he doesn’t know how quickly he wants it. Does he want to take this slow? Does he want this right away?

“I would like that,” Castiel responds, eyes soft with a small smile at the curve of his lips. 

“Okay.”

He gets to his feet, wiping the dirt from his hands and pulls Castiel up. The ride through the forest is beautiful. The sun is out and the breeze is soft, caressing their heated skin. And Dean’s never been so glad that Nicolaus nor anyone else discovered the lake the other day. He doesn’t like to share. This has always been his place. And now he supposes, their place.

Dean’s the first to jump in the water, still cold but nothing like the first time, keeping his eyes averted for Castiel’s sake. 

A splash beside him and he turns to see Castiel close, hair already wet and eyes expectant as he looks to Dean. 

Scars peek up over the water as Castiel’s chest rises and falls. 

Dean wades closer, toes grasping at the sand and dirt underneath. Castiel’s eyes flick down to his lips, his cheeks heating as he does. He doesn’t know what to say. He hopes his actions can speak for him. So, he ducks his head slightly, leaning closer, eyes flicking back and forth from Castiel’s eyes to his lips but the other man doesn’t inch away – only breathes, eyes fluttering closed as their lips meet. 

It’s a surprise when Castiel’s cold hands find his chest, resting there as he pushes closer, their noses grazing. It’s soft and slow and yet Dean shivers. The desire for him to reach out for more is overhwleming. He wants to circle his arms around Castiel’s waist and pull him closer. He wants to graze his hands over every inch of his skin, have Castiel breath hotly against his neck like he did that very night. Crumble beneath him. 

He wants, he wants, he wants. 

But he doesn’t press forward. He holds himself away. He doesn’t want to ruin this. He’s nearly done that enough times.

And without Castiel, he’s not sure how he would fare. This part of himself is still so new. Still so terrifying – only made less so because of the man in front of him. He can’t imagine what would happen if he didn’t have him. It would destroy him, he’s sure of it. 

But with Castiel, it all seems so right. It’s in that moment that he realises for the first time in a long time, he’s happy.

 

______________________________________

 

Castiel pulls away eventually, chest heaving and mind spinning. Dean emanates warmth and all he wants to do is be wrapped up in his arms and held tight. But he has to keep reminding himself.

This won’t last forever. He’s going to leave. Dean isn’t more important than his people. Than the fate of everything. And it tears him apart to admit it. But it’s true. No one is more important than this. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes before he can stop himself. The small smile on Dean’s lips fades.

“For what?” he asks, a slight panic in his voice. “Do you not want--”

“No, Dean, that’s not – I just mean for everything.” _For what I’ll do to you in the end._  

“Cas, you don’t need to apologise. I’m the one who still needs to apologise,” Dean says, eyes flooding with that familiar guilt and shame.

“I already told you it’s okay.” Dean sighs. 

“But what I did to you--”

“I don’t care anymore.” The thing is, he does care. And it still leaves an ache in his chest when he thinks about it. But Dean is here in front of him, ready to hold him and touch him. He’s accepted him now even if he still can’t stand to look at his wings. Realistically, it’s more than he could possibly have asked for.

But Dean’s eyes are filled to the brim with that aching sadness and he can’t bear to look at it. So, instead he swipes his hand through the water, splashing Dean in the face. 

The prince jerks back in shock, mouth opening wide as he stares at Castiel. And then thankfully, his eyes clear and that grin is there, lighting up his features. “For last time,” Castiel says, that fond memory of Dean’s playfulness the previous time they were here racing to the forefront of his mind. Dean’s smile is beautiful.

The first wave of water Dean throws at him has Castiel retreating back, hands up to block most of the spray. Castiel splashes back as Dean hounds him again with another one and his heart swells in his chest, his own lips curved up into a smile.

“Dean!” he shouts, splashing back but Dean is too quick, laughing in front of him and suddenly two hands are on his shoulders, dunking him under. 

Panic spikes in his chest.

_“Please, Michael. I’m sorry, I was going to come back I swear,” he cries, as his fourteen-year-old self is dragged along the ground. Michael’s grip around his wrists gets tighter as his body bumps across the uneven ground._

_“Were you?” he says harshly. “I can’t even leave you alone to do one simple task.” He was supposed to spend the time Michael was gone, standing in the cold, small lake they’d found in the forest, not too far from camp. But it was cold and dark and Castiel had taken his chance when Michael had left and ran. He only meant to be gone for a few hours until it was time for Michael to return. And then he could pretend he’d been there the whole time._

_But Michael caught him before he could get back._

_“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I just needed a break,” he pleads, spit flying from his mouth._

_“No one gets a break. Do you think your enemies will give you a break? Those who want you dead?”_

_Castiel cries freely, sobbing as Michael finally drops him with a thud. “If you can’t do it yourself, I will,” Michael growls and Castiel tugs away when he realises they’re by the lake again and Michael’s reaching for the back of his head._

_He braces his hands against the ground to try and push himself away but Michael is too strong. He can barely cry out before Michael is pushing his head under the water, holding him there as he holds his breath, heart pounding in his chest._

Castiel jerks violently out of Dean’s grasp, breaking the surface and gulping down air as his heart lurches in his throat. Michael had held him under for what felt like forever and when he finally came up for air, he shoved him back down again. He lost count of how many times it happened. 

“Cas, fuck, are you okay?” Dean says, eyes wide in concern. He reaches a hand out but retracts it at the last moment. “Shit, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Dean, it’s okay,” he says, voice raspy and pink staining his cheeks in embarrassment. “It’s not your fault.” 

“Did I – I mean, what--”

“ _Dean_.” Dean’s shoulders sink. “It’s okay. Sometimes certain things…they remind me.” He gestures loosely to his scars and Dean’s eyes flash with understanding.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That’s right. You didn’t. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Dean lets out a deep exhale, running a hand through his hair. They sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the sounds all around them. “We’re not good at this,” Castiel finally says, voice soft and Dean huffs, a small smile appearing.

“No, we’re not.”

Castiel finds his own lips quirking up. “I don’t mind.”

Dean’s eyes brighten then, his gaze soft. “Good. Because I don’t think we ever will be.”

Castiel’s smile falters. There it is again. That reminder. Does Dean really think that they will keep this up forever? He supposes he does. For Castiel told him he stayed for him. 

If he could take Dean with him, he would. But Dean’s not just going to leave this all behind. His home, his brother, his friends. Even his father. 

Not for him. Not for the angels. 

Maybe one day though, after all of this – if there is an after for him – he will find a way to see Dean again. 

Maybe.

Deep down, however, he knows in his heart that he won’t.

 

______________________________________

 

A few days pass as they dance ungracefully around each other – avoiding each other’s gaze and definitely avoiding any time they are alone together. It seems clear to Dean now that they both know what they want – each other – and yet they don’t know how to proceed. 

Dean actually finds relief in dining with Sam and Mervyn and lessons with Orderic and meetings with the generals. Because even though Castiel is there, at least he has time to breathe. 

Everything about Castiel is overwhelming. His blue eyes following him around the room, his lips pulling into small, hesitant smiles and his slender, calloused fingers, so light and gentle when they grasp at his chest. Let alone the fact that he’s a man – all hard, solid lines – so familiar and yet so foreign – and on top of that an angel. He hasn’t asked for Castiel to show him his wings again. And Castiel certainly hasn’t mentioned it. 

He wants to though. He wants to be able to reach out and feel them between his fingers for the first time. He wants to not fear them – not fear him. There’s no reason why he should. In fact, Castiel has more reason to fear him than he has to fear Castiel.

It’s absurd. And yet he can’t rid himself of the feeling. Of all the memories and all the nightmares he had of winged creatures taking his very soul from this castle.

They’re walking back to their rooms again after a long dinner with Sam and Mervyn and he doesn’t want to go to his chambers and fall asleep in a cold, empty bed. He doesn’t want to stand awkwardly across the room from Castiel, his heart in his throat as he tries to figure out how to do this.

So, he stops in his tracks. 

“Is something wrong, De – Your Highness?” Castiel asks, as he stands beside him. Since they went a while without speaking or barely speaking, Castiel has already forgotten to use his title in public. The last thing they want to do is draw attention to their closeness.

“I don’t want to go to bed just yet. Let’s go out to the fields,” he says, and he doesn’t wait for an answer before heading towards the stables.

Castiel is quiet during the ride there. They only go to where they usually train – a far way away from the castle and any guards for them to have their own conversations and even in the dark – perhaps if they’re careful – something more. 

They tie the horses up and Dean wades out into the field to find a nice patch of grass for them to sit. Castiel sits beside him, still not having said a word since his last words and Dean worries that this was the wrong thing to do.

But then Castiel glances over at him, eyes twinkling in the moonlight and he smiles. It’s small, like a flower blooming, and it has Dean’s heart pounding in his chest.

“It’s beautiful again tonight,” Castiel says, eyes now averted to the cloudless sky. 

“Yeah, it is.” The stars shine above them and Dean finds himself looking for The Fallen Angel and The Righteous Man. It makes him wonder. Did Castiel save him? Or did he pull Castiel down into this mess? He thinks maybe it’s a bit of both.

And then it washes over him. “Do you believe in the angel’s religion?” he asks suddenly and Castiel’s eyes are narrowed and hooded in the dark when they lock onto his own. He nods.

Dean frowns, trying to remember the general story of it. The God of Darkness – named after their own, Patrus, was touching souls of humans to turn them wicked and have them sent to the underworld. And an angel – the fallen angel – fell for a human that was destined there forever. And it paid the ultimate sacrifice – using all of its angelic powers to close the doors of the underworld – and consequently to paradise – and the demons were trapped and the angels all fell, losing their own powers. 

And one demon remained on earth. Searching for the fallen angel’s hidden powers that had been scattered all over the world to open the doors to the underworld. 

It had seemed absurd at the time. It stills seems absurd now. But…

“Do you think all of it is true? With the fallen angel and the righteous man? Do you believe that’s really why the angels fell?” 

Something flashes in Castiel’s eyes before he has time to make it out. And then a sigh. “I don’t know if any of it is true.” Something lingers in his voice. “But I do believe. Just like you believe in your own.”

Dean nods. He supposes it makes sense. But demons and the underworld? The fact that one angel could be responsible for the falling of all angels? And over what? One man? It doesn’t seem like the most reasonable story. But it doesn’t matter in the end, does it? It’s really no different to his own.

Other than…

_They were kind and generous. And accepting of people like me._

_Of people like you._

Castiel never had a moment in his life where he felt disgust at himself for falling for a man. Did he ever fall for a man before Dean? Does he like women too? Like Dean? Everything says otherwise but he’s too shy to ask.

He still doesn’t like to think about it. That this is who he is. That he’s one of those people. But he supposes he can’t run from it anymore. Especially since the desire to be with Castiel, to have all of him, is only growing stronger every hour they spend by each other’s side. 

Even now, as they sit closely in the grass, knees grazing and guards far far away and unable to see so well in the dark, the urge is there. 

“Dean?” Dean snaps out of his thoughts, flushing in embarrassment as Castiel peers at him under his eyelashes. “Are you okay? You look worried?”

“No, I’m fine,” Dean huffs, brushing it off. “Just--” He clears his throat loudly. “Which religion are you going to tell me about tonight? It’s been a while.”

Castiel’s smile is soft. “Which one do you want to hear of?”

Dean thinks for a moment. “How about something from Akwanyo?”

Castiel nods. The Southern Continent has many religions to choose from. “Now you see there? Those three stars that form the head of an arrow?”

 

______________________________________

 

An hour later they’re lying in the grass, Dean following Castiel’s fingers to find more and more stars and constellations. It’s amazing how every religion differs from one another – how they all explain the falling of the angels and their duties in the sky differently. 

He actually finds himself listening to Castiel’s words instead of focusing on the warmth of his arm pressed against his own. But eventually they fall into a lull, their breathing the only sounds in the night and Dean can’t resist it now. He cranes his neck, observing for any stray guards that might be able to see them but finds none. He turns his head to the side, facing Castiel and Castiel eventually does the same until they are merely inches apart.

“What do you want?” Dean finds himself whispering into the night. Castiel’s eyes are hesitant – shy – and if it wasn’t so dark he would say that sadness lingers there to. But he can’t be sure. Castiel looks as though he might say something but instead he rolls on his side, bringing them ever closer and glances down to Dean’s lips.

He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and Dean feels as though he should wait. And so, he does, waiting until Castiel opens his eyes again, fearful but intent and he leans forward, their lips meeting under the starry night sky.

His hands don’t find Dean, staying clenched in between them, as if still guarding himself from whatever might come. Dean pulls a mere few inches away, Castiel’s breath shuddering out of him.

“Does this…make you nervous?” he asks softly. And Castiel’s eyes widen, the fear and vulnerability replacing any of the courage he had a second ago. He swallows.

“Yes,” he breathes out.

“Then we don’t have to do this. We can always wait--”

“ _No_ ,” Castiel whispers forcefully, eyes panicked. Dean’s taken aback by it. He didn’t realise Castiel wanted this so badly. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, taking a calming breath. “I don’t – I don’t want to wait.”

“Okay,” Dean says, and something lights up inside of him at Castiel’s words. It’s finally there for him to hear, not just something he has to guess. “You don’t have to be nervous.” And it’s so strange. Because that’s what Castiel should be telling him. But at least Dean has experience, even if it’s not with a man, it’s more than Castiel has.

Castiel nods, eyes still vulnerable. “I’ll try not to be.”

Dean smiles, small and gentle – reserved just for him before he leans forward once more, kissing him languidly in the dark. 

They finally have to part when a guard shouts for them, concerned that they’ve been gone for too long. They make their way back to their chambers then, quiet and no doubt thinking about Castiel’s words.

Castiel himself is flushed, eyes now avoiding Dean’s. He bids a quick farewell before entering his own chambers. And when Dean finally lays down on his empty bed, it doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

 

______________________________________

 

It’s a breath of fresh air when they exit the outer walls of the castle. Even if there are four additional guards with them. 

Castiel is serene beside him, hair ruffling in the breeze. He wonders what it must be like coming and going from the castle as an angel. This is his third clear opportunity to leave and yet here he is. 

It still doesn’t make sense. Or perhaps he’s thinking too much because perhaps he doesn’t believe that Castiel would possibly stay for him.

Castiel glances over to him as they wander down the winding path and into the bustling streets of Anathee. His eyes are steady, no giving away any sort of affection that might have the guards stumped. The last they heard – the last everyone heard, Dean and Castiel were still far from friends. The only people he’s really told that they are getting along now are Dimarus, Leda and of course, Sam. 

And even then, he’s sure they only see it as far as them putting up with each other. He supposes, at the end of the day, it’s for the best. No one can know about them. About him. Except maybe one person.

Someone he’s long overdue to tell.

Charlie Bradbury’s pub is in the outskirts of Anathee – but no less busy than any of the inner-city pubs when night falls. Dean’s been there quite a few times since they became friends when they were young but he doesn’t get to visit as much as he likes. Much like Leda, Charlie’s the type of person he can talk to about anything.

Unfortunately, though, Leda is not the type of person he can talk to about this. In fact, he wouldn’t have any clue as to how she would react. They’ve never spoken of people like – like _him_ before. And he doesn’t want to ponder it too long. He doesn’t want to think about what his friends may think of him if they knew. But they will never know. He won’t let that happen.

Charlie is the only one who he can really trust. Except he can’t even tell her the most of it. Of how all this came to be – of all that has happened since. He won’t even tell her it’s Castiel – he wouldn’t do that to him. But Castiel doesn’t even know why they’re going here in the first place. He only told him he had promised to visit his friend.

It takes a little while to get there on horseback and especially with the streets so packed but Dean doesn’t mind the meandering. In fact, he welcomes it. He’s not exactly excited about meeting with Charlie. And there is a phantom hand around his heart that seems to squeeze tighter and tighter with each step they take.

And when they reach the pub, Dean’s heart is pounding so hard and the shame almost has him turning his horse around and galloping straight back to the castle. But he clenches his jaw and dismounts, Castiel and two other guards following after him.

Despite the fact that it’s only midday, there are already a few patrons scattered around the pub, drinking and laughing with their friends. 

Bright, red hair is nowhere to be seen and for a small second, Dean breathes out a sigh of relief. But then he straightens, gathering himself and heads to the bar. The man behind it looks up in recognition. William – one of Charlie’s closest friends and the only other person who lives here with her – has his own messy red hair sticking up in all different directions.

He nods his head subtely not trying to draw anyones attention to him. “Charlie is in her office downstairs.”

Dean nods his head in thanks before heading down, a few eyes already drawing to him as the two guards trail behind him along with Castiel. The door to her office is shut and Dean once again feels the tiniest bit of relief. But in the end, he knows only prolonging the inevitable will make it worse. So, he orders for the two guards to man the stairs and for Castiel to merely wait outside before he knocks.

“Charlie, you in there?” he calls, a moment after hearing a loud crash inside.

“Dean!” Charlie shrieks, the door flinging open, a bright smile lighting up the room. She doesn’t need to bow here or do any other formality. No one is watching but him and Castiel and so she throws herself at him, arms winding around his neck.

“I didn’t realise you would come so soon or I would have put on something nicer to wear,” she teases, face glowing as Dean laughs. She spots Castiel out of the corner of her eye and her smile turns softer. “Castiel, right? It’s so nice to meet you again.”

“And you as well,” Castiel nods politely. 

“So, what brings you here?” Charlie asks, eyes narrowed.

“I actually had a few things I needed to speak to you about.” The ‘in private’ doesn’t need to be said for it’s clear that Charlie can see the apprehension in his eyes. 

“Of course,” she mutters, eyeing him warily. “Come in.” She ushers him in with a hand, sending a vibrant smile towards Castiel before she closes the door firmly behind them.

Dean slumps down on one of the wooden chairs she has in her office, Charlie leaning against her desk.

“So…” she starts, hesitantly. “Is it your father again?”

Dean huffs a small laugh. For once in his life it isn’t his father. “No, actually it’s um…” He swallows around the lump in his throat. Why is this so hard? He takes a deep breath. “I kind of fell for someone.” Exhaling out, he feels the slightest sense of release although it’s barely over yet.

“Oh, Dean,” Charlie says joyfully, eyes lighting up. “It’s Leda, isn’t it?” Dean would laugh if it wasn’t for the nerves twisting inside of him. “I always thought--”

“It’s not Leda,” he responds bluntly. 

Charlie’s eyes narrow. “Who is it then?” And he can practically see her wracking her brain for any other lady she can think of. 

This is it. All he has to do is say the words and then it’s done. And then he can take a breath. His mouth goes dry, throat closing up, heart pounding.

“It’s…” His eyes fall to the floor. He can’t even bear to look her in the eye. So, in one breath – before he loses the ability to speak altogether – it all rushes out, “Charlie, it’s a man.”

He stares at the floor as the silence ticks by. And then a small, soft, “What?”

He meets her eyes then and they’re searching, confused and Dean squeezes his eyes shut at the sudden emotion that climbs up his throat, his lower lip trembling. 

But suddenly arms are around him, cradling him gently and he falls forward, face buried in her hair and lets himself cry. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” she whispers. “You’re safe here with me. You’re safe.” His shoulders shake at her words and he grips the fabric of her jerkin as he lets it all out. He thought he had already done so but telling someone else – telling someone he’s known for years – who is one of his dearest friends and hearing that this is okay – the feeling is overwhelming.

She holds him for a while until his tears subside and he pushes himself back up, wiping his eyes with his palms. She kneels in front of him, one hand grasping for one of his own, eyes soft and patient. 

“I never knew,” she says and Dean huffs.

“I didn’t either.”

“So…you like both?” she asks, face careful as though not to upset him again.

Dean shrugs, sniffling. “I don’t know. I mean I like women. That’s not hard to see,” he starts, offering a strained smile, “but I’ve never…” He hasn’t thought about it yet. He thinks the main reason why is that he’s been too swept up in all that is Castiel and his revelation but he also knows deep in his gut that part of him is too scared to. Like as if Castiel is the only man then it’s not that bad. “It’s just him.” His voice is unsure though, even as he says it but Charlie seems to understand. “I mean, is that even possible? To feel affection for both?” 

There’s a spike of panic in his chest at the thought before Charlie’s expression changes “Oh Dean, trust me when I say it’s possible.”

Dean sighs heavily. “Okay. Okay,” he whispers but it’s mostly to himself.

“So, who is it?” Charlie’s question catches him off guard and he has to restrain himself from flicking his eyes towards the door – to who stands outside.

“I’m sorry, Charlie. But I – I can’t tell you. I don’t want to put him in a position where--” Charlie cuts him off with a dismissive hand.

“No, that’s fine. I totally understand.”

Dean offers her a small smile. “Thank you.”

Charlie nods. “Does he know though?”

He exhales deeply. “Yeah.”

“And he…” Her eyes are wary but hopeful. Dean thinks it’s safe to say that even through all that’s happened, Castiel likes him back.

“Yeah.” He didn’t know what to expect from Charlie at his response. But it certainly wasn’t the way her eyes flash with slight dread and her lips turn into a frown.

“Is it Castiel?” Dean almost flinches, heart thumping.

“No,” he says, a little too forcefully. How can she know? Well, perhaps because he is the person who Dean currently spends the most time with and therefore the most alone time with. But why does she look almost…panicked?

“It’s not him, is it?” she asks firmly.

“No, I said no,” he responds, his own voice firm. “It’s not him, Charlie.” Something that almost seems like relief flashes over her pale features. “Why are you asking? Do you have something against him?”

“No, no, it’s just I remember you said to me at the festival that he’s suffered a lot.” Dean does remember that. It feels almost like a lifetime ago. “So, if it is him--”

“It’s not.”

“--be careful.” Charlie holds his eyes for a moment before Dean slumps back in his chair again. He’s not going to say anything but he supposes there aren’t too many more men in his life that he could have developed this bond with. The weight on his shoulders lessons with every breath. This feels good. It went better than he could have hoped. But there’s still a small pressure that weighs him down.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. 

Charlie shakes her head, confused. “You don’t have to apologise.”

“No, I do,” he says determinedly.

Charlie rests her hands on his knees now, peering up at him with pinched brows. “For what?”

“When I first...” he pauses, trying to find the right words. “When I first realised, I panicked. And I thought – I thought some things about,” he waves his hand in her direction, “people like you.” Charlie frowns, that confusion still clear on her face. “I thought that women liking other women wasn’t that bad considering men pay for it in brothels.” Of all things, Charlie’s eyes flash with pity. “As if that means anything. And I just feel like I completely insulted everything you’ve been through because it’s not better – not at all and I’m so so sorry.” His chest deflates with his last words, thankful to finally get it off his chest. 

But anxiety still lingers as he waits for Charlie’s response. “Dean,” she says, voice softer than he’s ever heard it and all anxiety drifts away. “Look at me. It’s okay. You were afraid.” 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I was. I was terrified.”

“But you aren’t now?” she responds, hope in her voice. He hates disappointing her. But it’s the truth.

“No, I am. But…he…and you make it a little less terrifying.” Charlie smiles and leans forward again to envelop him in a warm hug. 

“I’m glad I could help.” Dean breathes in her scent, the day feeling brighter than ever. As she pulls back, she runs a hand through his hair. He closes his eyes and he can almost imagine it’s his mother. “You know, you’re always welcome here.” His heart swells with emotion. “If you ever feel like you need a place to breathe, even if it’s only for a little while…”

“Thank you, Charlie,” he says, voice sincere. “That means everything.”

She nods, standing. “Alright, well, did you want to stay now?”

Dean pauses for a moment before his cheeks start to colour. “I actually had something else I wanted to ask you about.”

“Oh,” she says with a smile, always happy to be of service. “Is it on the same topic?” He blushes harder.

“Perhaps,” he says, eyes hesitant as they find hers. She realises a beat later and her own face flushes. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Right,” she breathes, and there’s a small flash of amusement in her eyes. “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right person.

 

______________________________________

 

Whatever Charlie and Dean are talking about inside of her office seems to take a while. Castiel waits patiently outside, taking in his surroundings but on the fifth sweep of the room, the door clicks open. 

His shoulders deflate. Finally. He’s already memorised every speck of the room. There wasn’t much more he could do. Castiel stands to attention as Dean exits followed by the bright, red hair of Charlie.

He’s about to open his mouth when he notices the pink stains on Dean’s cheeks and Charlie’s bright grin. “Is everything alright?” he asks, forgetting himself once more. “Your Highness?”

Dean swallows before meeting his eyes. “Yes, everything is fine. It’s time we get back.” Castiel nods, waiting for him to lead the way. And Dean does so quickly, taking the stairs up to the pub two at a time. He turns to give Charlie a small nod when he catches her eyes. 

They’re…worried. Castiel swallows, nodding quickly before following the prince. 

 

______________________________________

 

Dean is always determined in training. He’s focused and ready to do practically anything, taking hits without complaint. Well, these days he does. But somehow today, he is even more determined. Before, Castiel wouldn’t have thought it were possible but now as he watches Dean, light on his feet, dodging Castiel’s blows and barely even wincing when he’s taken down before he’s up on his feet ready for the next move, he certainly thinks it’s possible.

Something must have happened with Charlie that has reinvigorated him. And he has a gut feeling by the way Charlie looked at him that he knows what it was. That he told her.

He is pleased for him. The weight of it all must be tremendous. Castiel’s lucky that’s at least there is one thing he doesn’t have to feel the weight of. 

Dean pulls the same move he taught him all those nights ago – the same one he used on Dean at the festival after the incident with the pig – and he’s pinned to the ground, Dean merely inches above him.

But unlike every other time Dean has succeeded in pinning him, he’s not smiling that blinding smile. His mouth is parted, forehead beading with sweat and his eyes are filled with something but Castiel’s unsure of what.

Until he feels the hot breath on his lips and he understands it’s desire. Castiel’s stomach curls with warmth and he’s all but forgotten to fight back as Dean stares down at him from above with those eyes that look as though they want to--

Dean blinks, pushing himself off of Castiel and sitting back on his ass with a thud. Castiel lets his eyes slip shut for a moment, composing himself before lifting himself up into a sitting position. Dean’s face is flushed, panting heavily from exertion and his eyes are hesitant when they meet Castiel’s. 

“Sorry, I just…need a break,” he says, voice strained and although they are out in the fields far from anyone, the tension is thick between them.

Castiel nods. “Right.” He swallows, shuffling awkwardly in the grass to cross his legs underneath him. Dean’s staring out towards the outer wall, pointedly away from Castiel and he takes the chance to peer at him, memorising the shape of his lips and his nose – the freckles that speck his tan skin. 

He flicks his eyes away before Dean can catch him.

“Uh, should we pick up the swords again?” Dean says, clearing his throat and Castiel nods awkwardly.

“Yes, of course. Whatever you wish.”

With the swords, it is easier. Dean is out of range and their touches only ever last a few moments. But Dean’s gaze is still heavy on him and he can’t seem to rid himself of the heat that sends colour up the back of his neck and paints his cheeks at the image of Dean above him, breath hot and eyes dark. 

 

______________________________________

 

Dean can’t stop fidgeting all through the rest of the day. The lesson is almost pointless and he honestly feels sorry for Orderic for even bothering. The only relief he has is that Castiel is gone for most of it. 

But after training, dinner is the worst. Sitting across from him, it’s hard not to look at him. Sam helps slightly with his rambling and he puts a severe amount of effort to appear engaged but it’s almost impossible. Not after training with Castiel beneath him. Not after his talk with Charlie. And certainly not with night looming and the prospect of what might happen when it greets them.

_Might_ , he thinks – he reminds himself. Because Castiel might not want this. And if that’s the case then he doesn’t mind – he won’t push him, certainly not after all Castiel’s been through. And especially with Charlie’s words in his head. _Be careful_.

Castiel’s eyes meet his from across the table before he glances away quickly and it’s enough to have the tips of his ears turning red. He knows too. What might happen.

Dean swallows around his food, focusing on the taste in his mouth and whatever it is that Sam’s saying. What is it that Sam is saying? He doesn’t even know. He barely even caught Hermana’s words when she came with the food and stumbled out a half-hearted thanks in response.

“ _Deannnnn_?” Sam drawls, poking his arm with a finger. 

“What?” Dean whips his head towards his brother, eyes wide. Has he been staring? Are they suspicious of him? 

“Do you want the last of the meat?” Sam asks and Dean almost deflates – catching himself before he does. He can’t reveal anything.

His eyes flick towards Castiel but the man is in hushed conversation with Mervyn. 

“Sure,” Dean says, voice strained. “What is it you were saying, Sammy?”

“I was just talking about the festival.” Festival? Dean racks his brain for anything but--

_Shit_.

“Right, of course. Yes, your birthday festival.” He’s usually always on top of when things are coming up, let alone when Sam’s birthday is coming up, but so much has happened lately that he can barely keep up. Sam narrows his eyes at him, amusement shining before he shrugs.

“Yeah, I was just saying that I talked to the guards and the servants and…” Sam glances at Castiel, lowering his voice. “…I’ve made sure there will be no animals there. I don’t want them to get hurt like last time.” Dean blinks, lips curving into a smile.

“Oh. That’s very nice of you.” Sam shrugs again, sheepishly staring down at his plate. 

“Well, I don’t know. I like the animals. Don’t you?”

His heart tugs inside of him. Dean nods. “Yeah, I do.”

 

______________________________________

 

The walk back to their chambers is stifling. It’s not like it hasn’t been before but this is possibly the worst it’s ever been. Castiel purposely trails a few yards more than usual behind Dean. He can see the stiffness in his posture – he’s certainly got tension of his own. They pass a few servants and guards on their way, Dean nodding politely in their direction.

Castiel takes a breath of relief when they enter the dining hall between their chambers. He can finally get some sleep. And starting tomorrow, he will stop indulging himself so much and continue with the mission. Breaking into the king’s chambers was a start but it’s not enough. He needs more. 

Castiel stands before Dean, hoping that he may get something before they turn in but Dean doesn’t even look at him, passing by and grabbing the chair at the end of the table and jamming it up against the door handle. 

“What are you…” Castiel’s throat closes up, stomach twisting into knots as Dean finally meets his eyes. 

“I…” Dean’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips. That desire is present in his eyes again but they’re mostly filled with hope and anxiety. “We don’t have to.” Castiel swallows. “I just thought maybe…but if you don’t want to--”

“I want to,” Castiel says, the words out before he can stop them. And it’s the truth. He wants this. He wants it badly. 

Some of the tension seeps from Dean’s shoulders but the anxiety lingers and if anything, grows. “Okay,” he says. He licks his lips once more, Castiel catching the movement. He walks forward slowly, steps careful. Castiel stays frozen where he is, heart picking up with every inch that closes between them.

Dean’s hands rest on his waist, thumbs brushing up and down lightly over his hips. Castiel places his own on Dean’s chest, feeling the thudding of his heart beneath his finger tips. Their foreheads meet, the moonlight caressing them in the dark, quiet hall. 

Dean grazes his lips at first and Castiel feels the breath shudder out of him. He knows what’s happening here. Dean wants this but he doesn’t want to hurt him. So, he pushes forward, capturing Dean’s lips with his own and drawing a small, surprised noise from the back of Dean’s throat.

Dean understands then, finally pushing back, their noses grazing together as he walks Castiel back until he’s bumping the edge of the table. Dean’s hands grip him tighter, one sliding down to his lower back and the other resting up between his shoulder blades. Castiel’s breath hitches but Dean doesn’t remove his hand from where it lies and Castiel relaxes back into it. 

They kiss, slow and languid until Dean’s leg moves and lines up in between his own. Heat pools in the bottom of his stomach, a rough exhale leaving his lips. Dean pulls back slightly, eyes glazed over with desire but the apprehension remains. Castiel nods and Dean steps back, taking his hand and dragging him into his chambers, Castiel closing the door behind him.

Dean barely gives him time for a breath before he’s kissing him again, hands finding his back once more. Castiel slides his hands up Dean’s chest until they curl around Dean’s shoulders, holding him tight against him. Their foreheads are still touching when their lips part and Dean hastily starts to unbutton his own jerkin. Castiel takes a deep breath as he does, bracing himself for what’s to come. 

Dean shoves it off and starts on his doublet, pushing forward to capture Castiel’s lips once more. Castiel kisses back, a hand tangling in the short hairs at the back of Dean’s neck as Dean pants heavily, his hot breath sending a shiver down Castiel’s spine. The prince pulls completely away then, throwing his doublet to the floor and grabbing his undershirt by the back of its neck and pulling it over his head.

Castiel’s chest heaves now as he takes in Dean’s bare chest and stomach, arms tense and layered with muscle. It’s not like he hasn’t seen him before but to have it all laid out in front of him… His palms start to sweat. 

Dean steps into his personal space carefully, eyes down as his hands rest on Castiel’s stomach. He peers up under his eyeslashes, green eyes meeting blue. Castiel breathes, glancing down and beginning to undo his own jerkin but his fingers tremble slightly and he can’t seem to pull the buttons through.

Suddenly, hands are covering his own, pulling them away from himself. Dean’s eyes are soft as he says, “You okay?” 

Castiel nods jerkily. “Yes.”

“’Cause we don’t have to if you don’t--”

“I want to, Dean.” He grits his teeth hard, focusing on his breathing. “I want you,” he says, eyes steady.

Dean holds his gaze for a moment as if making sure what he’s saying is true before finally nodding. “Okay. Do you want to…” He nods towards Castiel’s jerkin. Castiel takes another deep breath before speaking.

“No, you can.” Dean hesitates for a few seconds before slowly starting at the top, slipping his buttons out of their holes one by one before sliding it off Castiel’s shoulders. The doublet goes next and then with a few moments of pause, Dean’s fingers grasp at the hem of his undershirt and pulls it over his head.

Chest heavy, Castiel watches as Dean’s eyes flick over him, hands clenched by his sides. 

“Can I…” His voice quivers and Castiel exhales deeply as he nods. Dean reaches out then, grazing the tips of his fingers over the first scar that he finds. Castiel’s stomach tightens and the urge to recoil is there but Dean’s hands are gentle and warm, so he stays. 

And he knows he’s made the right decision when Dean’s palms rest over his hips once more, skin against skin, and kisses him forcefully, drawing all the breath from his lungs.

When the prince parts again, it’s to pull at his boots, ungracefully yanking them off and throwing them to the side as Castiel does the same with his own – careful with the dagger that’s hidden inside of one – and undoing their belts with their swords, knocking them to the floor, until they’re left only in their trousers. 

Dean’s lips surge into his own, biting Castiel’s between his bottom teeth before slipping his tongue inside – a small sound choking out of him and Dean’s quiet moan in response has Castiel’s skin heating all over. Suddenly, Dean is leaning down, his hands wrapping around the back of Castiel’s legs and he curls his arms around Dean’s shoulders just in time for him to be lifted. 

Dean grunts with the effort, turning and walking them to his bed before laying Castiel down as slowly as possible. And then Dean is above him, just like all those times in training but now he doesn’t pull away – only pressing down into him, a leg between his thighs and mouth against his own. 

Castiel’s hands tangle in his hair, a strangled breath punching out of him as Dean grinds down into him, slow and careful but enough to have him hard in his trousers and his skin lighting up at every touch. Dean’s lips trail to his jaw, mouthing there before trailing further, right below his ear and Castiel’s mouth parts, eyes rolling back as he rocks up into Dean. 

His mouth is hot and wet against him and he tightens his hands in Dean’s hair as he gradually moves further down. It’s only after his mouth is already on him that Castiel realises what he’s doing. The first kiss to a scar trailing over his shoulder makes his stomach curl into knots. The second kiss, so tender and caring, is placed on a small scar over his chest and Castiel fears that Dean will be able to feel the wild thumping of his heart. But he moves on swiftly, placing kiss after kiss on scar after scar as Castiel begins to tremble beneath him and the emotion bubbles up in his throat. 

“You’re beautiful,” Dean whispers against his skin and it’s all too much. 

“Dean,” he says, voice strained. Dean pushes himself up to meet his eyes, concern etched onto his features.

“What’s wrong?” 

“I – I…” He cuts himself off before anything can spill out. Because he can’t say that. He can’t say that. So, instead he says, “I need you.”

Dean’s eyes are bright in the dark. “I need you too.” They gaze at each other, Castiel calming the rate of his heart until Dean’s eyes flick down to his lips once more.

Castiel swallows. “Do you know how…” 

The tips of Dean’s ears turn red. “Yeah I…I know.” Castiel doesn’t think about how he knows – he is a human who’s never done this before. Not that Castiel has but sex in all different forms has never been something the angels are shy about. “Did you want…”

Castiel’s entire body flushes and his eyes dart to the side before finding their way back to Dean’s. “I want you,” he says, but the words mean something different now. And Dean’s eyes widen ever so slightly before he nods, understanding. 

“Okay.” Dean sits back on his heels and undoing his trousers before unelegantly kicking them off. He only pauses for an instant before he’s divesting himself of his undergarments and suddenly Dean is completely naked in front of him – no lake to hide him anymore. His eyes regard the dark flush that trails all the way down his chest until it greets dark hair at the prominent lines of his hips. Heat pools in his gut, cock twitching in his pants when he finally sees how hard Dean is.

Dean leans down, hands on either side of him to kiss him hard once before pulling away. And when he does his eyes hold a silent question. Castiel lets his eyes slip shut for a second before nodding. 

Dean’s hands are slow at his trousers, carefully with the laces until he’s slowly sliding them down his legs. He hesitates at his undergarments – eyes flicking back up to Castiel’s but with another firm nod, Dean yanks them down and off and Castiel lets his head slump back on the mattress, hands gripping the sheets on either side of him as Dean takes all of him in. 

He barely has his eyes closed for more than a few seconds when a palm is cradling his jaw, and he opens them to find Dean merely an inch from his face. “Is this okay? Do you still…” he trails off as his fingers graze up Castiel’s bare thigh, sending another shiver up his body.

“Yes,” he breathes, urgent now. Dean nods jerkily, breaths coming faster now. He places a small kiss at the corner of his lips before leaving the bed. Castiel takes a deep breath before rolling onto his stomach and leaning up on his elbows, head hanging as his chest squeezes tight with anticipation. He can practically feel his blush trailing all the way from his neck to his lower back. Especially when he hears Dean’s breath hitch – he must have finally turned to see him laid out like this. 

The bed dips as Dean climbs onto it again and Castiel can feel the heat from his body before he even leans down to touch him. He kisses his way slowly down Castiel’s back, his hot mouth making Castiel shudder. Until finally he places a small kiss at the dip of his lower back and Castiel holds his breath. 

He hears the sound of a cork popping and oil being slipped over Dean’s fingers. His muscles clench tight and he grits his teeth as he waits. A palm to the small of his back, thumb brushing over his spine has him relaxing slightly and finally the first wet finger drags over his rim. 

“Fuck,” Dean curses quietly, voice shaky. Castiel takes a few deep breaths before forcing himself to relax even further. And as he does, the first finger pushes in. A noise sounds at the back of his throat and Castiel bites down on his lower lip before it can get any louder. “Cas, are you--”

Castiel nods firmly, not trusting himself to open his mouth. Dean’s palm trails up to rest between his shoulders, fingers grazing over scars as he starts to move his finger, thrusting back and forth in small movements. And with each thrust and each swipe of Dean’s thumb across his back, he feels the tension in his muscles releasing although the nerves certainly don’t go away.

Dean’s breathing is loud behind him and before he knows it, a second finger is pushing in, even slower than the last, the prince clearly afraid of hurting him. Castiel finally lets his mouth fall open, a breath punching out of him as Dean starts to stretch the two fingers inside of him. His skin is hot to the touch, burning all over in the cold, dark room.

A while passes before Dean adds another and Castiel starts to squirm, hips pushing against the mattress. Dean curses under his breath as he thrust his fingers back and forth. 

Finally, his fingers halt. “Are you…” Dean’s voice is strangled and Castiel wishes he could see him. See what this is doing to him.

“Yes, Dean, please.” He lets out a small whimper as Dean’s fingers leave him and the sound of oil being poured once more fills his ears.

A hand is on his right leg suddenly, pushing it up the mattress at an angle so Dean can fit in between his legs and Castiel braces himself. He feels the slick head of Dean’s cock press against him and the deep, laboured breathing behind him before he’s pushing inside. 

Castiel’s hands clutch at the sheets in front of him, gritting his teeth as Dean slowly buries himself inside of him until his hips are pressed up against his skin. “Fuck,” Dean says. “Fuck, Cas, I--” Dean shifts inside of him as he leans down, resting his chest up against Castiel’s back, his cheek pressed against Castiel’s own.

Castiel closes his eyes, taking deep breaths through his nose. Dean does the same beside him, right leg hitching his own up further to get comfortable as he leans down on his elbows, caging Castiel in.

“Are you – are you okay?” Dean whispers in between breaths. 

Castiel swallows before nodding. And so slow, as if afraid Castiel will break, Dean starts to rock – small, gentle movements that have his mouth falling slack, breaths coming faster, harder. Dean’s hands move to cover his own, entertwining their fingers as his cheek grazes against Castiel’s.

With every movement, his stomach clenches tighter and tighter, his arms beginning to quiver. A quiet moan falls from Dean’s lips along with a breathy, “Cas.”

Castiel’s stomach tightens further and he can’t do this.

“Dean I--” Panic rises in his voice. “I need to see you – need to--”

“Okay, it’s okay,” Dean whispers, voice gentle and reassuring. “I’ve got you.” He slips out carefully before helping Castiel turn over onto his back, blushing at the the way Dean’s gaze sweeps over him once more.

Dean’s own hair is sticking up in all differnet directions, chest heaving with exertion and face and chest flushed. Castiel meets his eyes to find them empty of desire. And when he sees what they are trained on, he panics. His inner left arm, laid out bare for all eyes to see. He nearly hides it away but suddenly Dean is leaning down, fingers caressing his wrist to hold it there but not forcing it and sweeps his lips over the long, jagged scar that travels the length of his arm. 

Castiel closes his eyes, emotion lodged in his throat. He waits for him to say something – anything. But Dean only leans back, eyes on his again before kissing him hard. Castiel makes a surprised noise that’s swallowed up by Dean, their noses bumping together as he pushes forward. 

He blinks back the tears behind his eyes, allowing his arm to rest there – for once in his life not trying to hide it away – no trying to hide any of himself away.

Dean pulls away, that desire now back in his eyes but there’s a certain gentleness tinting them now that makes him feel more vulnerable as Dean pushes himself back in. Castiel grits his teeth at the stretch from the new angle, Dean holding himself up on his hands with his eyes closed to get used to the sensation before he dips himself down onto his elbows, their chests flushed and lips close.

He rocks once, Castiel’s breath hitching as he does, before Dean suddenly halts. Castiel’s eyebrows pinch together as he searches Dean’s eyes to see if something’s wrong. But they’re only filled with wonder and the slightest glint of fear. 

“Show me,” he says. Castiel’s heart thuds in his chest.

“What?” He can’t be asking what Castiel thinks he’s asking. 

“Show me them. Your wings,” Dean whispers and Castiel stares up at him in awe, blinking back tears that well up. And then he takes a deep, shuddering breath, eyes holding Dean’s own. 

Dean jerks back slightly at the sudden large, black wings that appear underneath him. And since he’s naked – no clothes to rip through, he manifests them to the full – something he hasn’t done since he first left camp to make his way to Kalapell and eventually this castle. 

Dean’s green eyes are hesitant but slowly, so slowly, he reaches forward and curls his hand through the feathers. Castiel stares intently at his face, waiting for his reaction, the wave of emotions in his chest waiting to break free.

Just when he thinks he isn’t going to get an answer, Dean breathes, “They’re beautiful.”

A quiet sound falls from Castiel’s lips before he can hold it back, eyes slipping shut. And then there is a warm hand cradling his jaw, fingers grazing over his cheekbones. When he opens his eyes, Dean is there above him, eyes soft – always soft – and filled with so much affection that it almost has him turning away again. It’s all too overwhelming.

But Dean rests his forehead down against his own, kissing him once gently on the lips before he begins to rock – that hand still curled in his wings by his side. 

It’s easy to forget where they are – and the people outside. 

In here, it’s just them, breathing together, rocking together.

Castiel slides a hand down Dean’s back, the other wrapping around his shoulder to clutch there, his legs curled around Dean’s lower back. 

Dean grunts, mouth falling open, their breath mingling together. The hand cradling his face slides down until it caresses his thigh, hitching it higher and with a few deeper thrusts, Dean hits something inside of him that has a muffled moan leaving his lips and his stomach curling tighter and his cock aches, throbbing between their bodies. 

“Fuck, Cas, what--”

“Dean, _please_ ,” he begs, a hand sliding up to cradle the side of Dean’s face, fingers tangling in the hair just behind his ear. Dean nods jerkily against him, thrusting deeper and deeper, hitting that same spot over and over until Castiel can feel it building and building and it’s all too much. 

“Dean I’m—” Castiel’s cut off by the breath that punches out of him as Dean wraps a hand around his cock between them.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just--” Dean’s hand is hot, curling around him and he strokes one, two, three before Castiel is coming in between them, back arching slightly off the bed as his head falls back, biting down hard so as to not let any more than a whimper sound from him.

Dean pants loudly above him, continuing to rock before, “ _Cas_ ,” and then he’s coming inside of him, chest heaving and face buried in the side of his neck as he holds in his own sounds.

Castiel’s chest rises and falls heavily as Dean holds himself up for a moment longer before slowly slipping out of him and slumping down on top of him, head still buried in Castiel’s neck. 

The room is quiet beside their breathing. Dean’s hand is still curled in his wing, hot breaths on his shoulder as he calms himself. 

And then it all hits him and a few stray tears finally spill over the edge as he trembles quietly. Dean leans up on his elbows, fingers brushing away the tears as he shushes him. 

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re here with me. You’re safe with me,” he says, and Castiel nods, raising a hand to wipe at the wetness on his cheeks. If anything, though, his words only hurt more. 

Because this won’t last. It was never going to. 

But Dean is still here, above him – his face gentle and eyes caring after making love to him in his cold, dark room. And he’s beautiful. Overwhelming so.

And it’s more than he ever thought he’d get. It’s more than he ever could have prayed for.

As his tears subside and they fall back into quiet, Dean lies down beside him, Castiel turning over to face him, noses almost brushing. They keep their hands to themselves, resting in between them as their eyes trace every bump and speck of each other’s faces.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, eyes sad.

“For what?” Castiel asks, his body and mind heavy. 

“For all of this,” Dean says, and suddenly his own eyes are tearing up. 

Castiel reaches out to cover a hand with his own. “I’m not,” he whispers back.

For an instant, Dean’s eyes spark with something hopeful before it’s replaced once more with those shining tears, and that ever persistent fear.

“I’m scared,” he confesses, gripping Castiel’s hand tighter, twining their finger together.

Castiel exhales deeply, inching his face forward until they’re as close as they can be. “So am I.” Dean’s eyes flash with the slightest sense of relief. At least he knows he’s not alone. Even if Castiel’s fear does not resemble his.

He bites his lower lip. “You’ll stay here with me, right?” he asks, and his voice holds no hesitation. He sounds so sure.

And Castiel’s heart squeezes tight in his chest. Because he’ll stay here for tonight. He’ll stay here for tomorrow. But he won’t stay here forever. 

Castiel nods, not trusting himself to speak and as Dean’s eyes fill with that affection once more, he knows he’s holding his heart in his hand. And it might shatter him when he eventually has to let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed! Thanks so much for reading ♥
> 
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	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, everyone! i'm back. just thought i'd write here and say that unfortunately, i was so busy in the last few months that i wasn't able to do barely any writing or editing but thankfully, now i'm back into it! i'm currently writing chapter 18 and just edited the first third of chapter 15 today so things are going a lot better than before. the next chapter after this i'm going to try to get up within three to four weeks but i'll keep you all posted on my tumblr if it turns out otherwise :D

It’s still dark when he wakes but he can easily make out the form in front of him. He fell asleep facing Castiel last night – only having time to pull on his undergarments before exhaustion had his eyes drooping closed – but now he finds himself with his chest to Castiel’s back, arm curled around him as he nuzzles his nose into the back of his neck, hairs tickling his skin.

He breathes deeply, shuffling further into Castiel’s warmth, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. 

Last night was…wonderful. And at the same time, terrifying. Because there’s no going back from this. But despite the unwavering fear that is always there, teetering on the surface and lessened only ever by Castiel and Charlie, buried deep in his gut Dean knows that he doesn’t want to. And he doesn’t think he could come back even if he tried. This is what he wants. Even if it’s not how things should be – even if it scares him – even if it’s wrong. Curled around Castiel, holding him close – this is all he wants. How can this be wrong? 

And Castiel’s face, lips all bitten, eyes squeezed shut, his back arching and head fallen back as he came between them – all because of him. It was enough to push him over the edge. 

And his wings…gods, his wings. The way they ruffled beneath his very fingers. And Castiel had told him after Dean had wondered about his wings ripping holes in his clothing, that using his power he can manifest them partially – what he’d done when showing Dean his wings all the times before. He’d said this was the first time he’d allowed all of his wings to be fully manifested in a long while. And he’d done it for Dean. Because he asked him to.

Dean wants it all over again for the very first time. 

The first time. Their first time. He doesn’t want to think of it too long as it only draws his mind to the last. Because there is always that thought at the back of his mind. That he can’t keep this up forever. One day he’ll marry. Despite his father pushing it as far away as possible, it will still come to pass. And what then? 

Castiel stirs in front of him, shuffling slightly before sighing deeply. Dean closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He wants to see what he’ll do. If he’ll leave.

And when he does lightly remove Dean’s arm and pushes himself up, Dean panics. But Castiel only sits on the edge of the bed, legs dangling over the side with the sheets still curled around him. Scars stare back at him as Castiel looks out into the rising dawn that peeks in between the curtains.

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat before getting up himself. Only a slight turn of Castiel’s head even informs him that he has heard him. He shuffles forward until he’s pressed up behind him, Castiel in between his legs. 

He stiffens ever so slightly as Dean’s arms curl around his stomach before relaxing back into him. He plants a soft kiss on Castiel’s shoulder, grazing the tip of a scar. Castiel’s hands clench in the sheets as Dean’s hands drift up his stomach, tracing each and every bump he finds. 

He covers a hand over his left fist, kissing his skin gently and Castiel uncurls it, allowing Dean to tangle their fingers together. And with only a small pause, he turns Castiel’s arm over, the long, jagged scar facing up and with his free hand he lightly traces it from the bottom of his wrist all the way down to his elbow. 

Castiel begins to tremble underneath him as he does and Dean holds him even tighter. It’s a surprise when he starts to speak. 

“After the – war,” Castiel clears his throat. “My brother and I fled. Since my wings had only just been healed, I had no idea how to fight. So, he trained me.” He pauses as Dean’s heart clenches tight in anticipation. “Made sure that if I ever got myself into a situation with humans…that I would be able to fight for myself.”

He sniffs, wiping his free hand over his face. “He was always so kind when I was younger,” Castiel whispers, voice soft and broken. “But the war changed him and after, he wasn’t so kind.” Dean rests his cheek on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing his hand. So, he was right. It was his brother. All along. 

“We trained every day and night. He would…beat me – punish me.” His voice is so quiet now that Dean has to strain himself to hear. “He would leave me out in the cold without food and water for days.” Dean feels the anger rise in his throat and if his brother wasn’t already dead, he would hunt him down and cut the limbs from his body one by one before putting a dagger through his throat. But when Castiel trembles once more, it’s only replaced with that unbearable sadness. 

How could someone do such a thing to him? Dean still hates himself for what happened in Narla – for the whipping too – and he’ll carry that guilt and regret around with him for the rest of his days but this…

“Back then, I wasn’t in control of my…abilities. My healing came and went. But it didn’t matter anyway. If he saw that I had healed before he said so, he would punish me again.” Dean presses his cheek against Castiel’s own in what he hopes is a comforting gesutre, not wanting to interrupt.

Castiel takes a deep breath. “He said it was the only way for me to be safe.” For the first time, Dean wishes he knew Castiel when he was younger. He wonders what he was like. Did he smile and laugh? Or was he always the same old broken that he is now?

It aches deep in his bones to even think it. Did he ever catch a break? 

Castiel squeezes his hand back before turning his arm over, shielding the scar from sight. And Dean won’t push him. It’s a story for another time. And if he never wants to tell it, then Dean will understand that. It’s clearly the most painful of all the scars that mark his body.

Castiel’s shoulders start to shake then and Dean wraps both arms around him as he finally lets the tears come. He holds him as the sun peeks over the horizon. And all he can say is, “It’s okay. You’re here with me. He’s gone now. I’ll keep you safe.” 

But Castiel only seems to tremble more, tears streaming down his face. He holds onto his words like a promise. He’ll do anything to keep him safe. To keep him from harm. But he supposes it’s clear that they both don’t know how safe anyone is in this castle. And especially not them. Especially not an angel.

Castiel turns slightly, resting his head against Dean’s and clutching at his arms as he settles. And Dean holds him firm, tears of his own eventually falling, until the sun is well above the horizon. 

 

______________________________________

 

The very day after they first spend the night together, security is heightened throughout the entire castle. It’s Sam’s thirteenth birthday on the second and for a whole week before, two additional guards are ordered to follow Dean around along with himself. Dean says that usual protocol is a few days before but since the break in in the king’s chambers, everyone’s being a little more cautious.

It couldn’t have come at a worse time. They’ve barely had time to have a proper conversation let alone anything else. Two guards are even stationed right outside their chambers at night so their interactions mainly consist of staring at each other and grazing fingers whenever one passes the other. They’re not even allowed to wander off into the forest. 

While frustrating it’s also a relief. He can’t stop thinking back to the morning he confessed. In that moment, all he had wanted to do was take Dean’s hands and run away – from this castle, from Michael, from the mission, from _fate_. Because he’s finally found something. Something that makes him feel like it was all worth it. 

But he never will take Dean’s hands. He’ll never get the chance. In another life perhaps. But not this one.

And yet despite all he’s here for he can’t help but indulge. It’s selfish of him. He should be searching this castle top to bottom with every chance he gets. He must discipline himself from now on. He already spends enough time with Dean anyway. Once the festival is over and everyone has settled back to normal, he will begin again. And he won’t take a breath until he’s found what he’s looking for. 

Once the day finally comes, they head down to the festival in the early evening, not even bothering with dinner after one of Dean’s lessons with Orderic. The servants and maids had been up even earlier this morning to begin setting up the stalls and tents, guards making sure all vendors are in the spot they are supposed to be. Servants trot around now, making sure everything is perfectly in place as Castiel observes the nobles lining up by the outer gate, eager to get in.

Dean drags him to a food stall before the festival is officially opened, but the man behind the stall is more than honoured to grant them what they want. Castiel rolls his eyes but can’t help smiling at Dean’s charming grin.

The nobles flood the place once the outer gate is finally opened and to pass the time waiting for Sam to arrive, they scour all the game stalls, Dean leaning over and whispering as to which prizes are the worst and pointing out a prize that he thinks Sam might enjoy. They are halted many times as nobleman and noblewoman come across the prince, bowing respectfully before engaging in short, dull conversations while Castiel stands to the side. He’s not sure how he does it. Keep up this façade and deal with all these chattering people for so long. 

But he supposes he’s been practicing all his life. 

Finally, Sam arrives and after a big cheer and announcement from Dean’s father who barely stays for more than a minute after, they descend on the young boy before anyone else can.

“Dean! Cas! How are you liking it so far?”

“I don’t know, Sammy. I’m not sure there’s enough stalls for everyone.” Sam shoots him a glare.

“Says you. You had more than me for your birthday.”

“Because more people came to my birthday,” Dean says, with a small shrug, earning him a small elbow in the side courtesy of the young prince. Castiel finds his lips quirking up at the sight. It’s always been clear that the bond between them is strong. It only makes him wonder if Dean ever thought about telling Sam. He’s young, mind still more open than it will be when he grows up. He wonders if Dean did tell him, how would he react? 

“And what about you, Cas? Have you been enjoying the festival?”

Castiel offers him a small smile. “Very much so. And happy birthday, Sam. I can already tell you will grow up to be a fine prince.”

“Unlike Dean,” Sam says with a laugh.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Dean says, grinning back but Castiel can see the tenseness of his shoulders now. Still so naïve. Castiel wonders if the king even speaks to Sam about Dean. Does he pretend that their relationship is fine or does he not even bring him up at all? Because he knows for certain that Dean doesn’t speak about it. He’s too ashamed.

They gift Sam their presents, Dean handing over a beautifully cut dagger, jewels and markings embedded in the side, and Castiel handing over the carving of a wolf that he’d won at the stall earlier. Sam’s smile is as bright as the early morning sun and for a moment, Castiel can almost imagine that everything is okay.

“C’mon, Cas. Let’s go. Sammy here’s gotta stand up straight and greet some people.” Castiel nods in farewell before following after Dean. 

 

______________________________________

 

It’s bad enough that they’ve barely been able to speak to each other – let alone touch each other – for the week after that night together but even now, two additional guards still trail them around the festival. It only makes the afternoon dull as they wonder through, greeting anyone that comes up to him and even dancing with a few ladies once the music begins. He doesn’t flirt back with them this time, eyes always finding Castiel’s – who in turn is always watching and this time doesn’t try to look away.

The sun is beginning to sink below the horizon when Leda arrives, her siblings going straight to where Sam is still greeting guest after guest with gift after gift. 

Leda takes his arm in hers immediately and the guards finally trail a little further behind but much to his frustration, so does Castiel. 

They trade small talk over the festival and over Sam until silence falls over them. It doesn’t bother Dean. Silence in Leda’s company is always comfortable. And it’s nice now, with all the ruckus going on around him to have a moment of relief.

That is until Leda speaks again. “So, what happened to you?”

Dean turns his head, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Leda shrugs but there’s a soft smile on her lips. “You just seem a littler lighter.” 

Dean’s eyes widen, body tensing before he blurts, “What?” Is it that obvious? Can she tell? Does she know? No, she can’t possibly know. But--

Panic washes over him in a wave, stomach twisting.

“I can see it in your eyes, Dean.” Her eyes are soft, not judging. Some of the tension seeps from his shoulders but his chest is still tight.

He shakes his head, trying to brush it off. “What – I’m not – I don’t know what--” he’s fumbling for words now, and he’s never been gladder for the distance between them and the guards – between them and Castiel.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Leda cuts him off, saving him. “You don’t have to tell me. But whatever has happened – whether your father has laid off you or perhaps…you’ve found a lady…” Her eyes twinkle and Dean has to try his hardest not to turn red with embarrassment. “I’m grateful for it. I don’t like seeing you so down all the time.” Dean goes to retort but cuts himself off. He can’t help but flick his eyes over his shoulder to where Castiel is following behind them. Their eyes meet for a quick moment and there’s the smallest of smiles on Castiel’s face. Dean’s heart thuds in his chest.

Lighter. He supposes he is. Now that they’ve worked through their mess – and even though there will always be more to work through – for the time being things are okay. 

And it’s a strange feeling. To look at someone and feel that flutter inside his chest. To have his eyes light up at the mere sight of them. And to know that just for this moment, everything is okay.

Dean glances over to Leda who is gazing around at a stall they’re passing. He wonders if anyone else can see it. 

Strange.

He barely even noticed it himself. 

 

______________________________________

 

There are even more nobles to greet and chat politely with at the ball. He can always sense Castiel lingering behind him and while it makes everything more bearable it’s also increasingly distracting. Castiel’s not doing anything either but Dean’s mind can’t stop wandering – always distinctly aware of his proximity and always wondering if after this, would Castiel want to dance with him.

He’s halfway through speaking to one noble when he remembers. The first ball they attended together, Castiel had seemed on edge and had snapped at him for suggesting Castiel had wanted to dance. 

Had he though? Had he wanted to dance with Dean?

He has to fumble his way through the conversation with the noble once he completely loses track of what the man is saying and even after he politely moves on, he’s barely had time for a breath before a lady is asking him to dance. 

Once again, Dean’s eyes always find Castiel’s. He considers what it would be like with Castiel in his arms, pressed close and hands in each other’s as they move around the floor, those blue eyes peering up at him. 

He wonders if Castiel is wondering the same thing. 

It’s in the middle of another dance that Dean looks up and for the first time finds Castiel distracted. His posture is stiff, eyes flicking across the room. Dean follows his gaze and his jaw clenches when he finds the source of his discomfort. 

Nicolaus. And the guard he knows as Salicar beside him, both glaring back at Castiel. He feels the rage simmer underneath his skin. If only he was king, he’d have them whipped and dragged to the dungeons for what they’ve done to Castiel. Gutting a pig, and covering Castiel in its blood. And for Nicolaus, trying to kill him on the edge of that cliff. He breathes heavily. No, if he was king, they’d both be hanged. 

He has to restrain from excusing himself from the dance, waiting until the song has finally finished before kissing the lady’s knuckles lightly in farewell and striding off. Castiel’s eyes are on him as he approaches and Dean makes certain that no one else is about to approach him before speaking.

“Are they bothering you?” Dean asks, and Castiel’s eyes narrow before he understands whom he is talking about.

“No,” he says, suddenly sounding tired. Dean chews his lip, glancing back to where they were originally standing – now to find them gone.

“We can leave early if you like?” Dean offers.

“I wouldn’t want to take you away from the ball,” Castiel says softly, and if they were standing in the privacy of their own chambers, Dean would lean into his personal space and kiss him.

Instead, he responds with, “Actually, I would rather go back to the chambers.” Castiel eyes him strangely for a moment before his eyes widen in understanding.

“Oh. Well, if that is what you wish.” Dean smiles.

 

______________________________________

 

They say their goodbyes to Sam and Leda, Dean telling them he is tired from rising so early to train and that he might fall asleep right on the very ballroom floor if he stays any longer. Castiel observes the way he charms himself out of staying, everyone in his mere prescense smiling up at him as he passes.

He wonders what they must think. The charming crown prince – the man who has it all. Wealth, royalty, beauty and keen fighting skills. The prince who could have anything he wants – anyone he wants.

If only they knew the truth. Of the real crown prince. The broken shell of a man, fighting his way through everyday. The man who can despite it all still makes his heart stutter at the sight of his smile – the man who can even make him smile himself.

He trails behind Dean as they make their way back to their chambers and thankfully now, the two additional guards wait outside their rooms instead of following them into the dining hall. He follows the prince all the way into his chambers, moonlight spilling in through the balcony window. He closes the door behind them, sealing them in. They stand quietly for a few heartbeats, merely gazing at each other before Dean steps forward, a hand cradling his cheek, another resting on his waist. 

Castiel rests his own hands on Dean’s stomach, feeling the rise and fall that matches his breathing.

“I’ve missed you,” Dean breathes and Castiel swallows, nodding back, unable to form the words that sit heavily on his tongue. But Dean seems to understand when instead, Castiel leans forward to kiss him softly. 

Dean smiles against his lips. “I’ve been wondering. Back at the first ball we went to together…did you want to dance with me?” Castiel pulls back at his words, taking a moment to remember and when he does – because how could he not – he blushes, ears burning.  

“Yes,” he whispers. He recalls it clearly. After all, it was the night before Dean shut off – before Dean pushed him back against the table – before all of this. Dean’s tongue pokes out to wet his lips.

“Do you want to dance now?” he asks, but he sounds unsure. Castiel meets his eyes and a small smile tugs at his lips.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Dean whispers, taking one of Castiel’s hands in his own, interlacing their fingers. Castiel’s other slides up to rest on Dean’s shoulders as the prince pulls him closer, hand at the small of his back.

“You’re not going to complain about being the woman,” Dean says, his own lips quirked upwards.

But Castiel doesn’t smile back, only tilts his head, thoughtful. He could never have lived the way Dean does. In a world so constricting.  “Where I come from men dance with each other all the time. Women too. There is no ‘woman’ or ‘man’. Just people.”

Dean swallows audibly, a quiet kind of sadness creeping into his heart. “That must have been nice.”

Castiel nods before Dean slowly begins to dance, guiding him in each and every direction, chests bumping when they’re too close, Castiel even stepping on his foot once or twice. 

Dean huffs a small laugh, careful to keep quiet. “I thought for someone so graceful, you would be a fine dancer. Have you ever danced with someone before?” Dean asks, raising a curious eyebrow.

Castiel offers a small smile, but his heart tugs painfully. “With my parents and my friends. But that was a long time ago,” he answers, and Dean’s eyes go soft. 

“Your friends?” Castiel bites his lip. He wants to tell Dean. Wants to tell him all about them –about his mother and father too – but he can’t. Not yet. Not now.

“Yes,” he says, and from the look in Dean’s eye, he can tell that he’s understood what his answer means. They’re gone. 

“I’m sorry, Cas.” Castiel shakes his head lightly, shooting him a hopefully reassuring smile. He doesn’t want to think about this now. He only wants to feel safe in Dean’s arms as they dance. And thankfully, Dean seems to understand that too. So, they dance and they dance, slowly in the dark room until they finally come to a rest in the light of the moon. 

Castiel breathes out a shuddering breath, resting his head in the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean’s still holding his hand when he says, “Can I see them again? Your wings?”

Castiel lifts his head, hope swelling in his chest but eyes Dean with a silent question. _Why?_

Dean flicks his eyes away for a moment, hesitant, before responding, “It’s been a while.” Castiel can see that it’s not all that he wants to say but doesn’t push him. He breathes, letting them appear and Dean’s eyes fall to them in wonder and while the fear still lingers, it’s becoming less and less.

He reaches a hand out to touch them, grazing his fingers over them as Castiel trains his eyes on Dean’s face, observing every emotion that passes over him. After a few long moments, Dean lets his hands fall away, green eyes full of affection as he stares back at Castiel.

Castiel swallows wondering if he’s going to say anything. But he only raises his hands to cup Castiel’s face before kissing him lightly. Castiel sighs into it, allowing his wings to disappear as he does. 

He curls his hands in the fabric of Dean’s clothes, their noses brushing and foreheads grazing as they press impossibly closer. There’s a lightness in his chest – something he hasn’t felt in a very long time and he knows what this is.

Happiness.

Dean’s thumb brushes up and down over his cheek when they part, green eyes slipping closed as they stand in each other’s space. 

“I wish you could stay,” he breathes, and Castiel exhales deeply. He wishes he could too. But they can’t risk it with the two guards still standing outside. He’s not sure how long after Sam’s birthday the guards will stay but for both their sakes he hopes it’s only a few days.

Michael’s face flashes through his mind and he chastises himself for his own thoughts. No. He should be wishing for the guards to leave so he can continue on with the mission. Not because he wants to spend more time with Dean.

But Dean’s thumb is gentle on his cheek, palm warm where it rests on his skin and it’s so easy to forget about everything. 

But he can’t. 

So, he pushes himself away from Dean, the hands on his jaw falling away. “Goodnight, Dean,” he says quietly, and while Dean’s eyes are disappointed, they’re considerate too. The prince walks him to the door, opening it and allowing him to pass through into the hall.

“Goodnight, Cas.”

And Castiel goes, footsteps quiet as he crosses the floor but he doesn’t get far before there is a hand on his wrist, turning him and Dean’s lips are meeting his own, swallowing up the small noise of surprise that sounds at the back of his throat.

They part then, Dean’s smile small but holding the light of a thousand suns in the light of the moon shining down through the large windows of the dining hall. And yet Castiel’s smile is stilted. Because he can all but hear Michael’s voice in his head – can hear the angel’s voices in his head chanting over and over.

But why can’t he have both? The angels and Dean. The world and Dean.

If only he could find a way. 

He leaves the hall swiftly, mind pondering an answer. He only notices there are tears in his eyes after he’s curled up in bed. Because deep inside of him, he knows there is no way he can have both. 

And there is no way that at the end of all this he will choose Dean.

 

______________________________________

 

They’re just leaving their chambers to head out into the fields for morning training when a guard cuts off their path. “Your Highness,” he says, drawing Dean’s attention. “The king has summoned you to speak with him in the throne room. He is waiting.” 

Dean’s eyebrows pull together. He shoots Castiel a swift unsure glance before nodding towards the guard and following after them. 

What does he need to talk to him about now? Dean racks his brain for anything that has happened of recent that might incur this talk but can’t think of anything. The guard halts outside the doors to the throne room, gesturing for him to enter. “Your guard shall stay outside.”

Dean gives Castiel a wary look but the man only nods back, eyes soothing.

Dean huffs a frustrated breath before entering. The doors close heavily behind him as he takes in the room. His father stands at the far end but he is not speaking to anyone. He stands alone, waiting. 

Dean walks forward, bowing and greeting him with a small, “Father.”

There are only four guards in the room, flanking his father, but with one hand raised by their king, they swiftly leave. Dean’s gut twists. Something’s wrong. He would never have his guards leave him. 

But his father’s eyes hold nothing ominous. He waits until the last footsteps finally recede before speaking, voice nonchalant, “How did you enjoy the festival?”

Dean hesitates for a moment. What is this? What is he doing? “It was wonderful. I just hope that Sam enjoyed it.” His father holds his eyes until slowly, as if washing away a tide, the lightness in his eyes fades away. Dean swallows. “Why? Did something happen?”

“Yes, actually. Something did.” His father pauses, and Dean’s throat constricts as he begins to panic. What has happened? What is this about? But he only says, “You left early.”

Dean’s chest deflates. If he is just angry that Dean left early on Sam’s ball then he can deal with that. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea anyway but this is nothing he can’t handle. “Uh, yes, I did. I was incredibly fatigued after training yesterday.”

His father holds his eyes for another moment before nodding, eyes falling to the floor as he ponders Dean’s response. Dean watches him, unsure if he should speak when his father hums lowly and pulls a dagger from the sheath at his side.

Dean steps backwards, panic spiking in his veins before he composes himself. He can’t show his father that he is afraid. Even if he is standing in front of him, running his finger down the blade of his dagger. 

“Something else happened too,” he says, eyes still not meeting Dean’s. He spins the dagger in his palm before holding it tight in his grip.

Fear climbs up into Dean’s throat at the sight. He doesn’t understand. What is happening? “Oh?” he says, but it comes out smaller than intended.

“Yes. I was taking a walk in the gardens. That fucking ball was giving me a headache.” Dean’s eyes widen minutely at his words. Sam is his pride. Why would he say anything against his birthday ball? Unless… Did something happen while he was gone? Is someone hurt – is Sam--

“And I saw you.” He pauses and their eyes meet. And he’s never seen his father’s eyes appear so dark. His next words, however, appear even darker, for he says, “Through your window. With your guard. Castiel.” 

Dean blinks. It takes a moment for it all to catch up to him. A small, fragile moment before it splinters outwards, his heart lurching in his throat, his father’s cruel eyes all that he can see.

In the light of the moon. Shining through his balcony window.

No. No, no, no. Maybe he didn’t see. Maybe he didn’t see anything. Anything at all.

His father takes a step forward. “I know what he is,” he spits.

And that’s all it takes. The words slam into him as everything around him comes to a halt and all that’s left is him and this terrifying moment. This moment where everywhere shatters beneath him. 

And he can feel it all building up inside of him and all he can do is clench his jaw hard, holding his father’s eyes so as to not break his composure. Maybe he can convince him otherwise. Maybe he can do something to--

“I don’t know what you’re talking--” he starts, stepping backwards when his father slashes at the air with his dagger. 

“Don’t play stupid with me. You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.” Dean’s heart thuds in his chest as nausea climbs its way up his throat and he can’t speak, can’t utter a word. _No._ This can’t be happening. This _can’t_ be happening. How did this happen? 

“Now, what I’m going to do is be generous.” Dean tenses. Is he going to kill Castiel? Are they going to lock him up forever? “I’m going to give you until tomorrow.” Dean’s mind races. Tomorrow? To do what? “And in the morning, you’re going to bring him here and you’re going to give him up for what he truly is.” Dean feels tears prick behind his eyes and blinks them away before they can fall. How could he have let it come to this? “But like I said, I’m generous and I don’t want this getting out. So, I’ll only have my most trusted generals and guards in here with me.”

Dean’s throat is clogged with emotion when he spits out, “I can’t. I – I won’t.” Because why would he do this? Why would he hurt Castiel like this? 

“This isn’t a matter of whether you can or you can’t. You will,” his father grits out. 

Dean’s fists clench by his sides. “If you’re so sure about him, why can’t you just turn him over yourself?” Dean pushes down the nausea bubbling in his chest. This is a dream. It has to be. No, a nightmare. He’s stuck in a nightmare and he squeezes his eyes shut, nails digging into his palms as he tries to wake up.

But only the sound of dark laughter is what has him opening his eyes. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but your guard hasn’t exactly been a favourite of mine. And I want to see the look on his face when you betray him.” Dean’s chest starts to heave. 

“I won’t.”

“You will,” his father hisses, and suddenly the dagger is pointed at his throat. “Or your brother won’t see his next birthday.” Dean’s eyes widen in horror. 

“You wouldn’t.” 

But his father’s eyes barely flicker. “And it will be your fault. Just like with your _mother_.” Dean’s blood runs cold, his head pounding. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t hurt Sam. But his eyes are so incredibly dark, unwavering as he stares him down, dagger to his throat. “You’re not going to get Sam killed too, are you?”

Dean swallows, fresh tears welling up. “And the same goes for if I find that somehow, your special guard isn’t here in the morning.” He can barely breathe. “Do you understand?” the king punctuates slowly, and all Dean can do is nod, because he knows that the moment he opens his mouth he will crumble. 

“Good,” his father says, before leaving swiftly without a backwards glance and suddenly he is alone in this large, suffocating room. Once sure no one is watching, he sinks to the floor, hands tight fists in his lap as he breathes and breathes and breathes. 

 

______________________________________

 

Dean had been pale and quiet when he left the throne room. But had insisted they still go out to train. Castiel waits now until they are out in the fields alone, horses tied up, before speaking.

“Are you okay?” he asks, tentative. Dean doesn’t nod nor shake his head. He clutches his wooden sword tight, staring out at the outer wall. “Dean?”

“I’m fine,” he says, voice firm but Castiel notes it cracking. 

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, stepping forward, worried now. “What happened?” 

Dean clenches his jaw, eyes squeezing shut. “My father reprimanded me for leaving Sam’s ball early. That’s all.” Castiel nods in understanding but he knows that’s not all of it. His father was most likely not kind in reprimanding him.

“I’m sorry. Is there…” Castiel bites his lip. Why is he so bad at this? “…anything I can do?”

Dean opens his eyes to stare at the grass. “Can we just train, please,” he says, almost begging. Castiel nods. He needs a distraction. He understands that. And although he can’t really do anything out in the open, if they were in their chambers he wonders if Dean would have allowed him to…to…

Do what? He’s not sure. Do something. Be useful for once. Castiel sighs. “Okay.”

He begins hard but eases up when it becomes clear that Dean is not at his best. His focus is elsewhere and Castiel can’t blame him. So, he strikes and parries and at one point when Dean takes a moment or ten too long to raise his sword again, Castiel waits for him. If Dean notices, he doesn’t mention it. Although, Castiel’s sure he doesn’t. He barely seems to notice anything. And his eyes keep flicking towards the outer wall and the city beyond.

They’ve been training for a while when Dean finally hunches over. Castiel steps towards him, afraid he’s done something wrong but Dean holds out a hand to keep him away. “I need to sit down. I think I’m gonna be sick. _Fuck_.” Dean’s voice is strained as he slumps down in the grass, Castiel kneeling down before him, brows pinched.

“Do you need me to fetch a doctor or a maid?” Castiel asks, hands fidgeting restlessly on his knee as he tries to be helpful – tries to offer him comfort. If only he could heal illness and not just physical wounds. 

“No, no – just,” Dean grips his own hair tightly with one hand. “Actually, yes, yes. Please, just--”

Castiel is on his feet in an instant. “Of course. Should I get someone to come over and stay with you while I’m gone?”

Dean shakes his head, hunching over. “No, I’ll be fine. Just go.” Castiel nods even though Dean’s not look at him before taking off, swords clanging at his sides as he runs through the grass. 

Perhaps he’s just caught something. Perhaps it was the festival food he ate yesterday. He hopes so. He runs faster, not wanting to leave Dean for long but at least finally he’s doing something, finally he’s beginning to repay Dean for all those times he cared for him.

As he enters the castle, his mind runs in circles. This is another moment. A moment where he should alert the maids and then disappear for a few moments in search of the halo or any signs of it. But all he wants is to be at Dean’s side. 

He grits his teeth as he runs, finally finding a maid and requesting for her to inform a doctor that the crown prince is ill out in the fields. She hurries off quickly and Castiel finds himself stuck, torn between what he should do next. 

His heart pulls one way. His mind pulls another. 

_You can’t have both._

Castiel sweeps his eyes down the hall before ducking into a side corridor. He won’t be gone for long. 

 

______________________________________

 

As the minutes pass after Castiel leaves, the nausea slowly recedes. The fear, the grief – for something that hasn’t even happened yet – sits heavily inside of him. 

This is all his fault. All of this. Both Sam’s and Castiel’s life are in danger because of him. How is this his life now? How has all of this come to be? Why is his father doing this to him? Generous? As if giving him time to think about destroying someone is generous.

And Castiel. He breathes. Oh, Castiel. The way he’d looked at Dean with concern – the way he had seemed so eager to help him. If everything weren’t so complicated, he would have let him take care of him. Would have let him hold him, card a hand through his hair. In fact, at this point as he sits in the grass, sun shining and breeze light – a perfect day – it’s all he wants. But he can’t stomach it.

He doesn’t know what to do. His hands sit limply in his lap, the occasional tremor running through them. He clenches them hard and closes his eyes. 

He prays. To Leuric and Patrus, brother gods in arms. He prays hard. For anything. For any help they can give. 

And when his lips start to tremble, he prays to the God of Light, a god whom he does not know. And he prays for Castiel’s safety. 

Because he’s already made up his mind. He already knows what he’s going to do. Because what other choice does he have? 

 

______________________________________

 

Mary’s room is the same as it was the last time Castiel barged in on it. Dusty. Bare. Dark. He closes the door quietly, hall empty for now. He moves around the edge of the room first, feeling for anything in the walls. 

Nothing. He moves to the bed next – it would be incredibly easy to stuff something in there. But there are no bumps or slits in the side. The floor is his last chance and he navigates it carefully, feeling for any loose wood. Raucous laughter sounds out in the hall and he swiftly moves to the door, straining his ears. But much to his relief, the sound of boots on the carpet only get further away. He turns back to the bed. Last chance. 

He slides under the bed, feeling for anything and almost comes up short when his hands knock a plank closest to the far wall. 

Castiel’s heart skips. Could this be it? Is this where it’s been hiding all along?

He carefully removes it and reaching his hand inside, quickly comes into contact with hard leather. He feels around before pulling it out. A book. Castiel frowns. He feels around the small hole in the stone to see if anything else is hiding in there but it appears this is it. It’s not what he was hoping for but this could still be something. 

He slides out from under the bed, kneeling beside it and flicks to the first page. 

_Continuing on from my last entry._

_They’ve accepted to help rebuild Donner’s Bay after the storm. I spoke directly with both the King and Queen. It was…strange. They both regarded each other as equals._

Castiel narrows his eyes. This is a journal. Mary’s journal. Disappointment floods him. But a journal was never… A thought washes over him. Just because this is Mary’s journal, does not mean that no one else has written in it since. Someone could have found it after. Perhaps that’s why it’s been hidden away. Perhap’s there is something new inside. Castiel flicks through swiftly until he lands on the last few entries. The first is dated four months before the invasion. 

_Ferrant is acting strange. I’m not sure what has happened. Perhaps he is just wary of me after I disappeared that night a month ago at the royal castle in Iowan. But I can’t be sure. It’s irking me though. I shall keep an eye on him. See if anything strange happens._

There is something below – something scribbled out that Castiel can’t quite make out but it looks as though it talks of a poem. 

Other than that, there is nothing new here. It makes sense. He flicks to the next entry of interest, scanning his eyes down. It’s a month before the invasion.

_I don’t know what to do. They are talking of going to war with the angels. Ferrant claims he overhead the royals talking about using the halo and wings against us after we visited just a week ago. But that can’t be true. They would never do that. There is no reason to. Although, I saw he had slipped away one night. So, he was looking for something. Maybe he did overhear – but he must have overheard wrong. He must have. But it doesn’t matter now. He has convinced John that the Three are real. At least there is no word of anything else but John believes now. I’m trying to deny it. Tell him they’re not real. But he won’t believe me. I haven’t told them about the wings though. I won’t. I need to keep him safe._

_They won’t even let me send a letter to them. John says I’m blind because of my friendship with them. He’s keeping me on guard every minute of the day. I don’t know what to do. Because if this is all false, then the angels won’t know what’s coming. And I won’t be able to warn them. But what if it is true? After all this time, what if they are going to betray us?_

He flicks to the next entry, half a moon before the invasion. 

_They have sent soldiers – so many of them. Only John and his closest generals and guards have been informed of the halo and wings – the soliders sent to war even told to retrieve both of them. I still haven’t told them of the wings. I won’t. Even though, deep down I still have my doubts._

_The soldiers are hoping to surprise the angels in Iowan but since they all believe the angels are planning to wipe us out, they are going to be ready for anything. I only hope that someone warns the angels before it’s too late. Before they are slaughtered. But if they are really planning to wipe us out, then they will be ready. My heart is torn. The only thing I can do is wait._

The last entry is short and ends abruptly. It’s not dated but it must be from a week or so before the invasion. 

_It’s them. I know it is. Ferrant is gone. It all make sense. I need to warn someone but who will listen? They’ve done all of this to wipe out the angels I know it I’m almost certain and_

The rest of the page is blank and the page beside it has been ripped out but flicking through the rest of the journal, he finds it empty.

Castiel grinds his teeth. Nothing. It ends there. He supposes he should have suspected. But still, they must have found this. Only he had hoped that they would have written or hidden something inside as well. Not just hidden it away for safe keeping and most likely, information.

Frustration weighing on him heavily, he hides the book back under the bed before slipping out into the halls and back down a side passage. 

 

______________________________________

 

Dean spends the rest of the day in his bed, maids coming every so often with damp towels and food to eat. 

Castiel, himself, pokes his head in occasionally, shuffling awkwardly and always looking as though he wants to reach out and do something. And all Dean wants to do is let him. But he doesn’t, only tells him he should keep his distance and a few times even pretends he’s asleep. 

It’s unbearable to even look at him, let alone look at him to find such concern in his eyes. The nausea rises sporadically – when he’s thinking too much – but for the most part washes away. Because as every second passes by, he comes more and more to terms with what is to come. With what he is going to do. 

And he hates himself for it. Because he can’t even warn him. Castiel would only try to escape and that would only end badly – with either his brother dead or both of them dead.

The door creaking open has him glancing over to find Castiel peeking through once more. “Would you like your dinner, Your Highness?” he asks and Dean exhales roughly before nodding. Castiel opens the door wide ushering in Alissande who holds another bowl of soup on a platter. She nods towards him as she places it down on the table by his bedside and he swings his legs over the side, sitting up straight.

“Would you like me to fetch anything else, Your Highness?” she asks, eyes worried. “Hot water for the baths? Another--”

“No more soup,” he says, attempting to lighten the mood despite the way everything around him appears dull. She stills smiles though, small and close lipped. 

“Of course. No more soup. I will check on you tomorrow,” she says.

“Thank you, Alissande,” he replies, offering her a smile before she bows and exits swiftly, the door clicking shut softly behind her. 

Suddenly it’s just the two of them, alone together in his chambers, a bowl of soup steaming beside the bed. Castiel’s eyes are on the floor, hands behind his back. 

“Is there anything else you need?” he asks quietly. Dean gazes at him for a moment before shaking his head. Castiel’s eyes flick away, disappointed. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before nodding and turning. 

Dean closes his eyes. “Cas.”

Castiel turns on his heels, eyes hopeful and all he has to do is ask him to come sit with him. To come lie with him. So that he can hold him in his arms and pretend that this is not the end – only the beginning. 

But the words get caught in his throat. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says, and Castiel’s eyes flash with disappointment once more before he finally leaves. 

Dean stares at his soup until it goes cold. 

 

______________________________________

 

He’s dressed and sitting at his desk before the sun even begins to rise, unable to sleep at all the entire night. He waits anxiously for Castiel to enter before any guard can come to summon him. He at least wants to say goodbye. But surely Castiel would know something is wrong if he burst into his chambers unannounced. 

So, he waits.

And it’s the greatest relief and most terrifying moment when Castiel finally enters his chambers, eyes searching before they land on Dean.

“Good morning,” he says softly, approaching his desk and instead of standing in front of it like usual, he hesitantly makes his way around it to stand beside Dean’s chair. “Are you feeling better?”

His hair is ruffled, blue eyes bright and his lips pursed. Dean marvels at him. 

He shakes his head. Castiel’s lips curve downward, the toe of one boot grazing against the floor. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Is there anything I can do?”

Dean exhales roughly, standing from his seat, barely inches away from him. Castiel’s eyes widen slightly and that hope flashes through them. Dean can’t look at them. So, he takes a step forward, hands curling in the fabric of Castiel’s jerkin and lightly touches their foreheads together. 

Castiel sighs into him and it sends a pang through Dean’s chest. His hands smooth up over Castiel’s chest until they’re resting on his neck, thumbs brushing over the sharp edge of his jaw. Castiel’s own hands reach for his jerkin, pulling him closer. 

Dean swallows, the sound too loud in the quiet of the room, and leans down slightly, their lips meeting only for a heartbeat before Castiel is jerking his head away. 

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. Is something wrong? Does Castiel know--

“Sorry,” Castiel mutters, “I just – you’re ill, aren’t you?” And despite everything, a sad smile forms on Dean’s lips as he breathes out.

“No, I’m feeling better.”

“But you--” Dean rests their heads together once more, panic welling inside of him.

“I promise.” 

He just wants to kiss him one last time. And if he can’t – if he can’t do that--

A small smile pulls at Castiel’s own lips. “Okay,” he whispers, and Dean’s shoulders sag as their lips find each other. 

They stay there for a long time, Dean’s hands curled around Castiel’s neck, thumbs tracing every bump and dip of his jaw – Castiel’s own hands curling tighter and tighter around the fabric of Dean’s jerkin as they kiss languidly. 

As if they have all the time in the world.

And when they finally part for breath, Dean feels all these words on his tongue, all these things that he wants to say to him that have risen up inside of him in this quiet, empty room as Castiel stands here in front of him but he can’t get any of them out.

He flinches when there is a knock on the outside door. This is it. All of this gone. And Castiel is already pulling away, ready to head out into the dining hall. But Dean grabs for him before he can leave his chambers, pulling him roughly towards him and kissing him hard, a hand clutching at the side of Castiel’s face as if holding on tight enough might mean he can keep him here – might mean he can keep him safe. 

But Castiel parts once more, eyes amused, telling him he needs to answer the door and Dean can only brush a thumb over Castiel’s lips one last time before he’s turning and exiting his chambers. 

He doesn’t hear Castiel opening the door over the rush in his head but he does hear the damning, “Your Highness, the king has requested to see you and your guard once more. It is of an upcoming trip to the Arderne manor.”

Dean takes a deep breath before stepping into their dining hall. He didn’t even give them time to eat breakfast. “Yes, of course. I’ll be there in a moment,” he says firmly, fists clenched tightly behind his back to hide the slide tremor of his hands. 

The guard nods and steps back out into the hall to wait. Castiel eyes him cautiously – the look appearing to ask if he’s okay seeing his father again so soon. 

Dean hates it. Why did it have to be this way? And why can’t he do anything about it?

They follow the guard swiftly down the hall and on the way come across Sam and Mervyn passing in the other direction. Sam greets both Dean and Castiel with a wide smile and Dean is about to offer one back when he notes the guard trailing behind his brother and Mervyn. One that he recognises – one of his father’s most trusted guards. He gives Dean a hard look, making his stomach turn and he can’t even summon up the effort to smile at Sam before walking on.

This is serious. There will be every precaution taken and he knew that. But to finally see it – it’s as if it’s only just hitting him now. 

They stop outside the throne room and with only a second to spare, Dean glances at Castiel, taking him in one last time. Those eyes. Those lips. That small smile that Castiel offers Dean now – as if saying, don’t worry, I’m here for you.

And then the doors open before him, his eyes turning out towards where his father waits and everything slips away.

As they approach, Dean gazes over the room, noting the few generals that stand by his father’s side and the guards lining up the walkway beside them. He’s not sure what will happen. Will Castiel run? Will he fight? Will he attack Dean, himself? He doesn’t want to know. But he will anyway. 

They both come to a halt, Castiel standing slightly behind him but still in his line of vision.

His father steps closer, hands behind his back. He eyes Dean darkly, a sliver of enjoyment on his cruel face. “Good. You’re here.” And Dean doesn’t even know if he’s going to be able to do it – if he’s going to be able to say it. But he has to. Or else he’ll lose two not just one.

His father raises an eyebrow at him. “Did you have something you wanted to share?” Dean’s chest rises and falls, heart beating rapidly in his chest. 

His throat contricts, tongue heavy in his mouth. 

He has to. 

He inhales deeply, nodding in response. And then he opens his mouth as his eyes fall to the floor. 

“Castiel… He’s an angel.”

 

______________________________________

 

The room is deadly silent. And it takes an entire drawn out breath for Castiel’s mind to register the words that have just left Dean’s mouth. And then his eyes are wide, turning to look at Dean whose eyes are trained on the floor. 

Castiel’s heart thunders inside of him as a thousand thoughts flash through his mind. Dean has just outed him in front of everyone – in front of King Winchester of Torrin. Dean has betrayed him. Did Dean turn on him after he revealed he was an angel? Was it all fake? It can’t have been. Dean wouldn’t have made – made _love_ to him if it wasn’t real. But what other explanation is there. Did he conspire with his father afterwards? But as his eyes finds those of the king’s – they are wide with confusion and shock as well. 

Nothing makes sense. But now the mission is ruined. He’s been found. But there’s no proof. What proof does Dean have? Why would Dean do this? But Dean has no proof – he has no proof – How could he betray him like this – _no proof_.

And although every instinct inside of him urges him to run or to fight or to pummel Dean to the floor and – and--

He stays. And opens his mouth, putting as much effort as he can into sounding outraged as he says, “What?” It’s his only chance. Pretend Dean is the crazy one. And when they have no proof, they will have to let him go. Because if they find out about his wings – wings that can be hidden away, _the wings_ , and if the king is a king no more, than all will be lost. Not just the mission. But the world.

The king’s eyes fill with rage and finally he yells, “Well? Seize him!” Castiel focuses on calming the rapid beat of his heart, shoving all of the fury that calls to the surface as the guards approach him.

He shoves at them half-heartedly but eventually two take an arm each, yanking them painfully behind his back. “What is this?” he asks hoarsely. “An angel? With what? No wings?” he says, voice raised. Dean doesn’t even turn from where he stands, eyes still on the floor and the king’s eyes, while dark are still tainted with confusion. 

The guards drag him from the room and he tries to shrug his arms out of their grips sporadically as if he’s putting up a fight but eventually just lets them drag him away. People stare in the hallway. Servants, guards – even Dimarus and Joren, previously in conversation, now stare curiously in his direction as he passes by. 

He doesn’t understand anything. Why would Dean do this? Does he truly hate angels so much that he would turn Castiel in? What was that this morning? Was he only kissing him to keep Castiel from being suspicious? Was any of this genuine? Was any of this--

He can feel tears prick behind his eyes and blinks them back, forcing them away. He can’t show this weakness. It will only prove that this is truly hurting him. And he can’t let them see that. Can’t let them have anything over him. So, he shuns the thoughts from his head and lets his mind shut down completely, like he’s done so many times before. 

When Michael was beating him. When Michael left him out in the cold and dark all alone. When those visions of bloody feathers and _can’t breathe_ and burning, burning, burning spring up behind his eyelids. 

Shut down. Not present anymore. Not mentally, not emotionally. Only physically. His mind far away, the only thing to focus on being the rough hands of the guards. 

Unsurprisingly, the guards drag him down into the dungeons and his mind jolts back to the memory of hands crawling over his belt, fear spiking but before he can reach the lower level where the other prisoners are kept, they shove him off the landing and over to a small door that sits just beside the stairs. It clicks open with a key and one guard heavily yanks it open. The stench may be even worse in this one room than it is down with all the other prisoners. And he realises why when they shove him inside. 

It’s a small stone room with two posts in the middle, chains hanging from each. A small table and chair reside in the corner along with a small bucket in the other. Two candles are lit on either side of the wall as if waiting for him.

And everywhere – on the walls, the floor and even the ceiling – splatters of stained blood. 

Castiel swallows. He knows what this room is for. 

They shove him to his knees, chaining his wrists to each individual post so he’s strung apart before the guards undo his belt – and it’s hard not to flinch as unwanted hands touch him there but he restrains himself – taking his swords and searching for the daggers hidden in the sheaths in his thighs. Taking them before one of the guards rounds behind him and pulls off his boots, revealing the dagger hidden inside there. The place a pair of cuffs around his bare ankles before the silver bands signifying his position in the castle are yanked from his arm.

And then the two guards both pull out a dagger and slice into his jerkin, cutting the fabric from him. Their faces are both blank as they slice away, cuts deft and accurate, not even piercing his skin. And he knows these are some of the castle’s best guards. They are the king’s after all. And when they get down to slicing away at his doublet and undershirt until his chest is completely bare, scars visible for all to see, the guards only eye him up and down before looking towards each other. One walks around to stare at his back – no doubt searching for any sign of wings – and finding none, nods to his partner and they both swiftly leave the room with the bundle of ripped clothing, the wooden door shutting heavily behind them.

Castiel holds himself for about a minute longer before he can’t anymore, letting himself slump in his chains now that there is no one here to see. His eyes slip shut and his breaths choke out of him painfully. 

He’s failed. Failed all of them. Failed the angels. Failed the world. 

All for some love. Some small, pathetic love. 

 _No_. No, if he can convince them he’s not an angel, that the crown prince is lying, then maybe they will let him go. Or maybe they’ll just leave him here to rot. 

He supposes he deserves it. All that matters is that he can’t break. Word will get out soon enough. Someone else will find a way to take his place, to finish what he started. And then they’ll rescue him and he’ll finally end all of this. Or try to.

His head pounds. 

And when he does, he’ll forget about all of this. Forget about this castle. Forget about Dean. 

Forget about Dean.

He grips the chains tight in his hands, muscles straining.

Forget about him.

No. He won’t forget about him. 

He’ll find him. After all of this. After it’s all over. And he’ll ruin him. 

 

______________________________________

 

He waits until the doors close behind him, Castiel’s voice disappearing with it, and finally lifts his eyes in shame to meet his father’s own. 

But his father doesn’t look as gleeful as expected. His fists are clenched tight, eyes widened and teeth grinding together. Dean’s heart twists. Something’s wrong. Again. He flicks his eyes over to the rest of the generals in the room but they are all in shock too, eyes trained either on him, his father or the door where Castiel just disappeared.

Did his father not tell them? But turning back to his father now and all he sees is...rage. 

“Everyone out,” he seethes, spinning on every general and guard still in the room. They all falter for a moment, eyeing each other – eyeing Dean. “Out!” 

They disperse quickly, without even so much as a bow. 

Something’s wrong. Panic rises in his throat. Something’s wrong. What did he do wrong? Once the final guards have left the room, his father storms over, right up into his personal space. Dean grits his teeth, waiting for the blow.

“So, he’s an angel now, is he? And what evidence do you have of that?” Dean blinks, mouth parting.

Time slows.

“What?” It’s quiet, almost a whisper.

“I said,” his father punctuates slowly, “what evidence do you have of that?”

“But--” Dean’s heart climbs in his throat. 

No.

_I know what he is._

_I saw you._

_Through your window._

Not his balcony window. The windows of the dining hall. Standing in each other’s space. 

_Goodnight, Cas._

And it must be clear on his face. For his father smiles. 

No. _No, no, no, no, no._

“I saw you. _With_ him.” Dean swallows. No. There’s still a chanc-- “He’s a sinner is what he is.” 

And there it is. All layed out in front of him.

Dean’s throat constricts. He can’t breathe. 

 _Cas_.

His father steps closer, amusement in his eyes. “But you thought I meant something else, didn’t you?”

He swallows it all down. If he can convince him that it’s not true – that he was lying--

“No, I didn’t mean--” His father’s fist shoots forwards before he can react, punching him square in the nose. He stumbles back, hands lifting to his face but his father’s hand shoots out again, grabbing his hair tightly and roughly yanking his head forward. Dean grabs at his father’s wrist, gritting his teeth in pain and tears are welling up behind his eyes now because he’s ruined this – all because he was so _fucking_ stupid--

“What evidence!” 

Dean’s mind whirls. And now there’s blood dripping from his nose but he can barely feel it. He needs something. Because he can’t tell them the truth. He can’t.

“I thought I saw – one night I thought I saw wings in the dark but I – I don’t know.” Because there’s no such thing as an angel that can hide their wings. Everyone knows that. 

But the hand only grips him tighter. 

“Don’t _lie_ to me.” 

“I swear! I thought it was real but I don’t know and I thought I saw them again that night--”

There’s a sharp sting as he’s backhanded hard across his cheek. His father’s rings catch on his skin, ripping it open. 

“And you still let him turn you?” his father screams, eyes filled with ire. “Even though he was man but worse yet, even though you thought he was an angel!”

“I didn’t--”

He’s shoved roughly to the floor, blood slowly beginning to trickle down his cheek as the blood from his nose slips into his mouth.

“Enough _excuses_. Get out!” Dean pushes himself to his feet, mouth open to say something – anything but his father beats him to it. “Get out or I’ll order the guards to throw you in the dungeons too!”

He turns on his heels as swiftly as possible then, nearly tripping over his own feet as he runs out of the room. He moves down the hall, past servants and guards, and throughout all the commotion no other guard thinks to follow him. All the while his heart beats out of his chest and he has to fight for every breath of air. 

How could he let this happen?

He has to save him. He has to save Castiel. There’s no evidence that Castiel is an angel. No such thing as one that can hide their wings. They wouldn’t know that. They can’t know that. But then why did his father seem so threatened?

He makes it to his chambers, locking both doors behind him. 

He has to save him. But how is he supposed to do that? What if they kill him? What if somehow, they find out?

And this is all his fault. All his faul--

“No, no, no, please, no,” he whispers. To someone. To anyone. To his gods. To Castiel’s god. _Someone help him. Someone save him._

He falls down onto his knees, face covered in blood, hands clenching tightly in his hair. 

_Someone save them. Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's a good time to say since I've been getting this question a bit lately and also this chapter is pretty damn angsty, that I am literally incapable of writing sad endings. I just cannot write them. So, this story will be angsty basically up until the very end but it will have a happy and hopeful ending! So, for those of you who are worried you can worry no more!!
> 
> Also I am very excited because despite how this doesn't look great for our boys, next chapter is a BIG chapter and the story is going to progress very quickly in the next few and a lot of things will be revealed!
> 
> I thought since my uploading of chapters sadly isn't very consistent that I'd make a tagging list for those of you on tumblr (if you want to of course). So, either send me an ask/message or let me know in the comments of [THIS POST](http://angvlicmish.tumblr.com/post/183514604796/chapter-14-of-a-graced-kingdom-is-up-check-it) if you want to be tagged when I post upcoming chapters. Or if you have an AO3 account you can subscribe to the story and I believe you get notifications whenever I post!
> 
> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed! Thanks so much for reading ♥
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://angvlicmish.tumblr.com/)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: violence/torture

It’s been hours. And no one has come for him. Not to give him food or water. Not to ask him questions nor beat him.

The waiting is unbearable. His knees ache where they rest on the stone floor. The faint sounds of prisoners one level below him seeps under the door. But for the most part, it’s quiet.

He focuses on the sound of his breath. On the rise and fall of his chest. On that ache in his knees and the cold that chills his bare skin. 

_“Castiel, sweetheart? Where have you gone?” Castiel shakes his head, turning to the bright, blue eyes that stare down at him. They’re having lunch out in the fields since it’s such a lovely day. Although Michael couldn’t be here – training with the guard. So, they’d offered Kyra and Elaria to come along._

_“Sorry, just thinking.” His mother frowns._

_“About what?”_

_Castiel feels the breeze ruffle his wings. He’ll never get used to it. “About the future.”_

_His mother’s frown doesn’t fade. She sits down beside him, brushing hair out of her face. “Are you scared?”_  

_Castiel flicks his eyes down to the grass. Is he scared? His parents were so happy when he was saved. But with every moment that goes by, he can see that they are scared too of what the future holds. “Yes.”_

_“That’s okay though,” his father says, kneeling in front of him and placing a flower in his hair. “Because we’ll be scared right there with you. Right girls?”_

_Elaria grins around her food, Kyra offering up a soft smile but there’s a sadness to her eyes. Even though they’re twins, Kyra always seems a few years older. As if there’s an age-old wisdom inside of her. As if she knows it’s not all going to go as they hope._

_“That’s right,” Elaria says._

_“Did you hear that, sweetheat?” his mother says, placing a kiss on his forehead. “What do I say?”_

_Castiel smiles up at her, her head haloed by the sun. “That you always knew I was special.”_

_His father laughs, gazing at his wife, clear adoration in his eyes._

_“And that’s why we’re getting married,” Elaria pipes up._

_Kyra’s jaw drops. “You’re marrying Cas--”_

_“No, all three of us—”_

_“Ew, Elaria, I’m your sister!”_

_“It’s not like that. It’s a friendship marriage. And you don’t have to be a part of it if you don’t want to.”_

_Kyra crosses her arms, clearly offended at the thought of being left out and his parents laugh at the two girls’ antics. “Of course, I want to be apart of it. It’s all three of us remember.” Castiel meets Kyra’s sincere eyes. “Forever.”_

_And it’s not posed as a question. Because they all know. And despite the fear, despite the unknown future that awaits him. He knows now that he won’t be alone._

_That with his family and his friends by his side, he can face anything._

_“Forever,” he says, and when he looks up at his mother, there’s only joy on her face._

_“Haven’t I always told you?” she whispers._

A stray tear slips down Castiel’s cheek before he can stop it.

 

______________________________________

 

It’s early in the morning – well before dawn – when Dean spies three generals walking hurriedly up the grand stairs, silent and unaware of his presence. 

He pauses in his own steps on the plush carpet, thoughts spinning. He couldn’t sleep – not that he thought he would be able to – and was intending to go out to the stables to spend some time alone there to gather himself. But…

With quiet steps, he follows the generals up the stairs, rounding the hallway and observes as they enter into his father’s private meeting chambers before the doors closes with a faint click of the lock behind them. 

What else could they be talking about? It has to be about Castiel. Especially with the way his father was acting yesterday morning. 

The way he appeared to believe that Castiel could be an angel despite his lack of wings. Was is because Dean sounded so sure? Or perhaps it was because he already knows something that would incline him to believe in the possibility. But Castiel’s wings aren’t anything special. Well, they are, but Castiel is the only one that has them. Isn’t he?

Luckily, there are no guards in sight, his father’s closest ones most likely on the inside of that room, so he strides his way down the hall and through a small servant’s hall that winds around the side of the room. 

He hurriedly pads down the steps until he’s directly under a small window built into the side of the stone passage. It should lead out onto the small ledge just below the room if his bearings are correct. But to get up there…

It’s high. And if he climbs only to fall down onto the stone, not only would he possibly break both his legs but he’d be caught too. And that certainly wouldn’t bode well for him. Or Castiel.

But he needs to hear what they’re speaking of. It’s worth the risk.

With sweaty palms and his pounding heart, he places his hands on either side of the skinny passage and jumps up until both his feet are placed either side as well. And then from there, bit by bit, he climbs upwards.

His arms tremble with the effort and he has to strain himself to lean slightly forward in case he does fall so that he won’t land on his back – something that doesn’t help in keeping him calm. He almost thanks the gods above when he reaches the window and it pushes open easily. 

But before he can do anything, voices echo through the spiralling hall. Servants. He swears under his breath before gritting his teeth, legs still on either side of the walls holding him up as he secures his hands on the outside of the window. 

He swears the voices are almost upon him now and with one deep breath he pulls himself through the window and out onto the small ledge on the outside of the castle. He slumps slightly, relief washing over him. Now all he has to do is not be seen nor slip and fall off the ledge and to his death below. 

Dean lets out a rough exhale.

There’s only a soft wind tonight and the moonlight is shielded by heavy, grey clouds. So, he has to blink a few times before he sees it. When he does, his heart spikes. A window outside the meeting room that’s been nudged open for air. 

Glancing out towards the gardens, he spies a few guards – none of which thankfully, are looking his way – before making his way carefully along to the window and crouching down beside the opening. 

“But why would he lie?” a general says, Dean straining his ears to hear.

“He could have been telling the truth,” another general states, “Perhaps he did just think he saw wings when he didn’t.” Dean swallows. They’re talking about him.

“No, I disagree.” His heart picks up a step as he hears his father’s voice. “He sounded so sure. And when I questioned him he panicked.” Dean curses himself. If how he reacted ruins Castiel’s chances of getting out of those dungeons alive, he’ll never forgive himself. 

“But how could he be? Like he said himself, there are no wings on his back--”

“Are you so sure?” His father’s voice is like steel. 

There’s a long, stretched out silence, before someone says, “You don’t think…” Dean’s mind begins to race. Think what?

“It’s possible,” his father says, and Dean wishes he could see his face – wishes he could understand what he’s saying.

And then, “But we don’t know the power they hold. The halo has never worked.”

The halo. Dean squeezes his eyes shut. Where has he heard that before? Did Castiel ever say something about it? And what power?

“Maybe that’s because only an angel can wield it,” his father says, voice raised. “You’ve heard the legends, haven’t you? They both came from an angel after all.” The legends? Is he speaking of Castiel’s religion? 

“So, you’re saying he could have…” a general trails off, voice unsure.

“The wings.” Dean’s mind comes to a halt.

The wings. The halo. The _grace_. He remembers now. From his mother’s journal. But he can’t remember what else it said. He needs to go back and find it. Especially if…

He stops. His head is beginning to ache with the enormity of all that is happening – of all that he doesn’t understand. He takes a deep calming breath and strains his ears once more.

“It would make sense. No one ever found them. We certainly didn’t. And Ferrant was certain the angels had both of them. And one turned out to be true, didn’t it?”

“But what are the odds that the one who did take the wings would end up in our castle? How do we know it did not just perish in Iowan with the angels?”

“And he doesn’t appear to be much of a threat. Only a nuisance.”

“It doesn’t matter,” his father cuts in, anger rising. “My son looked certain. And that’s enough to go on.” Dean clenches his fists hard, nails biting into his skin.

“So, what? We confront him as an angel? Treat him as though he has something to hide?”

“But we can’t tell him of the wings or halo in the chance that he doesn’t know what they are--"

His father cuts in, “We don’t have to be explicit about it. And either way, it doesn’t matter if we do.” An ominous quiet falls over the room and Dean feels his gut twist at the implication. 

“When _will_ we question the prisoner? If it’s true, perhaps he will let something slip.”

“I’m not so sure. This one – he doesn’t appear to be hurt easi…” His father trails off, Dean leaning dangerously close to the window now.

“What is it?”

“I know a way. A way that we can get to him. I saw it with my own eyes. He has a weakness.” His father doesn’t need to say the words. Dean already knows. He’s the weakness. His father will use him against Castiel.

“But if that doesn’t work? If we can’t prove anything?”

A few beats of silence pass before his father speaks, “We will keep him until we do.”

It dawns on him then in. Castiel has no chance. If they find out he is an angel, they will lock him up and cut him apart until he’s no more. And if they can’t find anything, it doesn’t matter. He will be locked in the dungeons until he dies a slow death.

Which can only mean one thing. 

Castiel’s life rests in the palms of his hands. He’s the only one that can save him now.

 

______________________________________

 

The moment he slips back into his own chambers, his knees buckle beneath him, and he falls heavily to the floor. His heart is beating a mile a minute and his head is throbbing with the amount of information he is trying to process and piece together.

He barely remembers what his mother’s journal said but mention of the wings and the halo were there and he swears it said something of the angel’s holding them. But from what he heard in that meeting, it sounds as though his father has this halo for whatever reason – for whatever power it holds. And they tried to use its power and couldn’t and his father has deducted that perhaps only an angel can wield it. 

And the wings. Wings that have power. That Castiel could have. But Castiel said it was a spell. His father talks of it as if it’s an object, something to capture. Did Castiel lie to him? Or perhaps the spell and these wings are something different completely.

And it had something to do with the legends. The religion. But he can’t remember the details of that either – only of gods of light and dark, an angel falling for a human, and all angels falling because of them.

He lets his eyes slip shut, breathing through his nose to keep the panic at bay. Not only is he trying to figure out what any of this could mean, he’s also dealing with the revelation that he’s the only one who can save Castiel.

He forces himself to stop. To let his mind clear for a few moments. Logically, the first thing he should do is find his mother’s journal and see if he can make some sense of everything he’s just heard. 

He’s weighing up whether he should risk it and head out now when a loud knock sounds on his door. He jerks to his feet, smoothing down his front as a loud voice says, “Your Highness, are you in there?”

Dean clears his throat before opening the door. He recognises the face immediately. One of his father’s guards. His stomach drops. “What is it?”

“You father would like to speak with you. Immediately.”

 

______________________________________

 

The heavy door scrapes across the stone, rousing Castiel from his dazed sleep. Two guards flock in, followed by none other than the king.

One of the guards drags a chair before him where the king sits, eyes piercing and smile cruel. Castiel meets him head on – keeping his eyes lowered could be seen as an admission of guilt. He needs to do everything he can to appear innocent – stay alive just long enough for someone to save him.

He can’t do anything to make them believe he could be an angel. Because if he does – and if this king really is who he thinks he is, they’ll know he has the wings – they’ll know who he is. And then he’ll be done. Along with everyone.

The king lets his eyes drift over his chest and arms, pausing over each and every scar as though attempting to taunt him. Castiel only holds his head higher.

“So…” he begins, slight amusement tinging his voice. “An angel. I’ve never had the pleasure to have a live one in my castle.”

“Then I suggest you go hunting. For you will find none here,” Castiel rebuffs, huffing in anger. Playing the part convincingly is the only thing he can do now, other than wait.

“You’re right. It does seem a bit strange that we could accuse you of that when you do not look like one.” The king leans forward in his seat. “But I think we both know that there are things out there that hold the power to do wonders. And perhaps one of those wonders is to hide the wings on your back.”

Castiel doesn’t react. He’s bluffing. He has to be. Whoever the king is, both would know of the wings and halo power but despite that, no one but Dean could possibly know for certain he’s an angel. No one else has seen his wings. Right? But he supposes the king might as well throw all his cards in because there’s nothing to lose. Because it doesn’t matter if they prove it or not. Castiel will die here anyway. Which means he really does have to play the part. To last as long as he can before someone can rescue him. And while it might be much more difficult, he can still continue with his mission from the outside.

Castiel huffs, a twisted smile pulling at his face, betraying the anxious thumping of his heart. “Is that what you do to any soul that eyes you the wrong way? Accuse them of being an angel?”

The king raises his eyebrows. “Me? No, of course not. I didn’t accuse you of anything. It was my son after all who told us.” And there it is. That gleam in his eyes. He’s trying to use Dean against him. Because he knows he means something to him. And that can only mean that Dean told him everything. On the inside, Castiel’s heart splinters whilst rage bubbles beneath his skin. If he gets out of here and they come back for war, he will take Dean apart himself. He’ll make sure of it.

But in the furtherest corners of his mind, he knows he’d never be able to. He’s fallen too hard. He won’t ever be able to forget that. And there are still too many things conflicting. Like why Dean would make love to him. Why he would cry tears over him. Why he wouldn’t have just let Castiel fall off that cliff to his death below.

“You see, we both thought there was something strange about you,” the king continues. “And on my behalf, he took it upon himself to figure out what exactly that was. He told me how he seduced you. Pitifully easy, apparently.” Castiel’s jaw ticks and his hands itch to clench into fists. “And how he thought that was it. That’s what was strange. You were a sinner.” He wouldn’t go that far, would he? If this was all just a game of seduction? He doesn’t understand how anyone could do that. How anyone could fake that. “But…it didn’t end there, did it? He saw you. With wings. So, what do you have to say to that?”

Castiel weighs his words carefully. Dean has already told everyone of his ways. Why would he lie about that? And perhaps if he admits to one thing, it will be less likely that he is the other. 

“I don’t care what your son says. I am no filthy creature,” he says, adding extra venom to his words, which takes no effort on his part considering the anger simmering inside of him.

“But you do not deny being a sinner?” 

Castiel stares the king head on before letting his eyes slip shut in defeat. “I’ll admit it.” He meets the king’s dark eyes once more as he says, “But I am no _angel_.”

The king nods, acting as if he’s pondering his words. “And yet, wasn’t it the angels that lived that way?” Castiel huffs, shaking his head with what he hopes is disgust on his face. The king stands suddenly, rounding his seat before coming to stand merely inches away from him – not bending to his level, only staring straight down at him, forcing Castiel to crane his neck. 

“I’ll make you a deal. A very good one, I would say. You should think yourself lucky. If you tell me the truth about being an angel and your wings, I’ll grant you a quick death. If not, well, we’ll keep you alive. For as long as you live.” He pauses then, a smile on his lips. “But only barely.”

Castiel doesn’t flinch. “And what if I have nothing to tell?” 

The king’s eyes flash with a darkness that has something stuttering inside of Castiel. 

A bag is pulled over his head, cinched tight around his neck, all air leaving him before the king can say anything in return.

 

______________________________________

 

_“Michael, please, don’t do this. I’ll do better! I promise!” Castiel pleads, screaming in pain as Michael hits him again._

_“Don’t you understand, Castiel. I’m saving you. I’m protecting you.”_

_“You’re hurting me!” Tears stream down his face but he can still make out the darkness in his brother’s eyes._

_He pauses for a moment, Castiel finally feeling some kind of relief. His brother shakes his head._

_“One day you will understand. One day you will thank me.”_

 

______________________________________

 

His lungs feel raw, as if the insides have been flayed. His throat burns and every breath is painful. The slices all over his body sting along with the bruises from the fists and boots that has every part of him aching. 

And yet, he doesn’t speak a word. He doesn’t make a sound besides his grunting and ragged breathing. The blood for once in his life even helping him – helping take his mind away to _suffocating, can’t breathe_ instead of keeping it present. 

But the physical pain… 

The day has come. He wished it never had. But he’s never been so grateful in such a twisted way. His brother has saved him. 

The thought itself might be worse than the torture he endures.

 

______________________________________

 

Dean wants to throw up. His stomach is in knots and his heart is in his throat. Castiel didn’t make much of a sound but he heard the last of the punching and kicking. Dean himself almost made a sound. A sound of anguish and pain.

All he wants to do is kill every man in this room before taking Castiel into his arms and running far from this place. And he plans on it. Somehow. But when his father practically held him captive in the throne room, lecturing him about what he has to do for the past few days, he barely had time to think about it. 

About the lies he has to convey. About the coldness he must convey. 

Or else, Castiel will be killed on the spot. Because his father knows. He saw them together. And he saw Dean panic. He knows how he feels. 

So, Dean will help him break Castiel. If only it means that he will stay alive for a breath longer until Dean can get him away from here.

A few generals stand along with the guards that have just finished beating Castiel and doing gods knows what else.

They’re only waiting for his father to arrive to commence the next step.

Dean bites the inside of his gums and digs his nails into his palms – some pain an easy thing to focus on. He can’t show any emotion. He can’t show anything but coldness.

The sound of heavy boots on the stairs marks his father’s arrival. 

Dean lets his eyes slip shut. If Castiel can endure this, he can certainly play his part. 

His father nods toward the generals before giving an appreciative glance towards his guards and their blood-stained gloves. He meets Dean’s eyes last.

“We’ll be watching.”

Dean swallows. One wrong move and it’s over. All he can hope is that this doesn’t break Castiel. That he doesn’t give in and tell the truth – whatever that may be.

The two guards grind the door open and the scent of blood stings Dean’s nostrils. He takes a deep breath before following the guards and his father in, the generals waiting outside the closed door.

His heart stutters in his chest at the sight.

Castiel’s shirtless, arms pulled across each side of the room by chains. He’s slumped on his knees, breathing ragged and loud. But his body. There’s blood splattered everywhere. So much so, that at this distance he can’t identify where most of it is from.

He lifts his head slowly and Dean schools his features, clutching his sweaty palms behind his back and jutting his chin out. His face is just as bloody and bruised as his eyes find his father’s.  And then in the blink of an eye, Castiel flicks his gaze to Dean. It’s so subtle but he can’t not notice the hardness in Castiel’s eyes before he glances back to the king.

His father sits on the rickety, wooden chair in front of Castiel, Dean standing close behind as the two guards make their way around the posts behind Castiel. 

“Well, well, well. How are you feeling?” his father begins, tone condescending. Castiel only continues to stare at him, eyes cold and jaw clenched. “Good, I hope. Because this is only the beginning after all.”

As if on cue, one of the guards grabs onto one of Castiel’s fingers and pulls it back until there’s an audible pop. Castiel makes a guttural harsh sound through clenched teeth, eyes squeezing shut and breathing heavier now as his arms tense, pulling the chains taught.

Dean’s nails dig into his palms. It’s okay. He knows Castiel can heal it. Just like he did with his wrist. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.

“Have you decided yet to take my deal?” his father asks. Castiel’s upper lip tremors in ire. 

He won’t give in. Dean’s knees are shaking so hard that he almost buckles in relief. 

His father nods, although Dean can tell he’s vaguely disappointed. Despite seeing Castiel barely react to being whipped all that time ago, the physical torture that he’s endured would be enough for any man to break.

But that’s why he’s here. 

“Aren’t you going to ask why the prince is here? Don’t you want to know?” Castiel stares at the king, chest heaving. “He wants to watch you suffer. After knowing what you are. A sinner and an angel. And he tells me that you appeared to fall for him quite hard. Pitiful, really, wasn’t it, son?” Castiel’s eyes don’t change, that hardness the only thing lingering within them.

Dean lifts his head, praying his voice doesn’t wobble. “Yes, father. Quite.” 

Castiel’s throat bobs.

His father stands, rounding the chair and standing in front of him. “You probably thought he felt the same, didn’t you? How does it feel to be betrayed? Go on, tell me.”

He keeps his eyes planted firmly on the king, never straying.

“Fine. Don’t. How about you look at him.” And it’s not a question. Dean hardens his own eyes ready for Castiel’s gaze but it never comes.

“Look at him!” His father grips Castiel’s jaw harshly between his fingers but before he can say anything more Castiel spits in his face. Dean’s eyes widen, heart pounding as his father jerks back before backhanding him across the cheek, leaving a trickle of blood that spills from his mouth in its wake. And it’s a moment more before one of the guards is behind him and pulling a bag down over Castiel’s head, tightening it. 

Castiel gasps through the fabric and Dean can feel the tears welling up behind his eyes and he blinks them back as fast as he can before they can appear. 

His father sends him a glare that could kill him on the spot before turning back to wait for the guard to be done. But he doesn’t take the bag off and his father doesn’t signal too.

The seconds pass by agonisingly slow as Castiel struggles, body tensing, hands gripping at the chains – bar his broken finger – and his boots scrabbling at the ground as his body twists one way and the other. 

Dean’s heart is in his throat and he’s about to step forward when his father waves a hand. 

The bag is pulled from his head and Castiel gasps for air, coughing and spluttering as his head hangs, chin meeting his chest. His body releases all tension and Dean restrains the relief from showing on his face. 

The king gives him a few moments before gripping his jaw once more, bending forward this time to catch Castiel’s glazed over eyes. “I said look at him.”

The hesitation is there but finally he does, blue eyes meeting green. Dean’s chest tightens painfully. The anger is there, clear as day. But Dean can see everything else too. The utter grief. The hurt. The pain.

And his father must for he says, “Oh, look at that. You really did think it was something real, didn’t you, you filthy little thing.” And Dean wants to scream that it’s not true. That it was something. That it _is_ something. That it’s _everything_.

He feels the tears coming then and he can’t stop it. He makes his strides purposefully slow, unsuspicious – because this wasn’t part of the plan but he can’t ruin it now.

He stands in relief behind Castiel, blinking back his tears. If Castiel can’t see them, then he hasn’t failed and despite the anger in his father’s eyes that he feels anything at all for a man – and perhaps even an angel – he doesn’t comment. 

Castiel still believes his betrayal. And that’s enough.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” his father says, grip if anything, tightening on Castiel’s jaw. 

There’s a moment of silence as if he’s trying to summon up the effort to speak before he replies, “I will not lie about something I’m not.” That tiny relief fills Dean again. It’s not as though he thought Castiel would break so quickly but the fear still lingers. Because if he does before Dean can get him out, there’ll be no chance. If only he hadn’t put Castiel here in the first place. 

_All your fault._

His father finally lets go of his jaw, taking a step back. “Well, if you won’t tell us yourself – if you won’t show us those _lovely_ wings I know you’re hiding on your back, we’ll just have to cut them out.” Fear spikes inside of Dean and he takes an instinctive step forward before he realises and pulls himself back. They’re not really going to, are they? And even if they do, will they find anything that suggest wings are there? 

The panic rises as one of the guard’s steps forward, dagger slipping from his sheath and kneels down behind Castiel. Castiel’s arms tense, throwing his head over his shoulder to see what’s happening. Dean sees the fear in his eyes although it’s contained and when he glances towards Dean that pain flashes through them before he’s turning back towards the king.

“Is this what it’s come to?” Castiel spits, voice still raspy. His father doesn’t respond. “Fine. Do it. I’ll be delighted to see the look on your face when you find nothing.” 

Another backhand to Castiel’s cheek has his head lolling to the side. But there’s slight hope at the assurance in Castiel’s voice that they won’t find anything. His father grips his jaw once more, bending down until he’s mere inches away. 

“And my son and I will be delighted to see the look on your face when you scream.”

Without anything further, the guard begins, piercing in between Castiel’s shoulder blades with his dagger. Dean grits his teeth, holding back the emotion that sits as a lump in his chest. Castiel’s entire body tenses, the sound of his heavy breathing filling the room, building and building. 

The dagger goes in a little deeper – not enough to kill him but enough to hurt him – enough to find something - and then he slowly begins to tear his way down. And then Castiel begins to scream.

He pulls at his chains, veins popping along his arms and neck. His feet find purchase on the crack in the ground and push against it and the urge to step forward with Dean’s own sword in hand and stab this man through the heart is ever growing but if he does that, they’ll never get out of here. And so, he watches and waits as Castiel struggles and screams in pain – pain that he’s never seen inflicted before – pain that must be horrific and yet Castiel still doesn’t give in. 

He feels his knees weaken and bile rise in his throat. He has to hold a hand out on the wall to steady himself, tears stinging the back of his eyes and he can’t look, he can’t watch, he can’t listen but he should. And not because his father has made him. But because this is his fault.

Glancing up, he finds his father’s eyes transfixed on him, the disappointment thinly veiled before his eyes flick back to watch Castiel suffer. 

The guard soon pulls the dagger from his back, one thick slice between his shoulder blades. Castiel slumps in his chains, head fallen forward. The blood trickles down his back slowly and they’ll have to get a maid in soon to clean it and make sure he doesn’t lose too much blood or else they’ll never find out if he’s an angel or not. It’s the only reassurance Dean’s heard come out of his father’s mouth when he spoke of Castiel’s torture.

The guard shakes his head towards the king – his father nodding once – before moving to make one identically beside it. 

Castiel’s muscles ripple all over his body, guttural cries punching out of him one after the other as he pulls at his chains – so hard that Dean swears he can see the wooden poles slanting inwards where they stand. 

He releases a sudden harsh cry as the guard rips the dagger downwards and Dean feels his chest splintering into pieces. He's ever heard Castiel in so much anguish before and all he can do is watch. All he can do is stand here and pretend that he's complicit in what's happening to him. The blood trickles down his back, the dagger slow in its trail and he flicks his eyes toward his fathers to find some twisted satisfaction on his face. 

Dean finds himself trembling in relief when the guard finally pulls his dagger away and lifts himself back to his feet. Castiel slumps again, his shoulders trembling erratically. The guard shakes his head once and frustration spreads over his father's features. But it’s swiftly replaced by a twisted smile that creeps onto his lips, and he crouches down so that Castiel's face is level with his own. He nudges Castiel's chin up with his fingers until their eyes meet. 

"No, don't cry," his father says, and Dean's heart lurches in his throat. Castiel's crying. The pain of it all. It's too much. "Because you know, this is only the beginning. Save your tears for later." His father swipes the tears from his face with the pads of his thumb and Castiel doesn’t even jerk away. Too tired to resist. It breaks Dean’s heart all over again. His father pats him condescendingly on the cheek one last time before rising. He motions for Dean to follow him as he walks towards the door. 

Dean strides past him although doesn't hesitate to sneak a look at him as he passes. Castiel’s eyes are closed, tears staining his cheeks and his breathing is jagged and short, muscles completely lax. But his face is twisted in pain. 

He doesn't think he'll ever forget it.

The maids are already waiting outside the chamber, ready to enter and clean his wounds to stop any more bleeding or infections. Alissande is among them and she shoots him a quick glance, her eyes scared but reassuring. At least he knows that for now he's in good hands. 

His father doesn't speak until they've made their way up the stairs into the entryway to the dungeon. A few generals are waiting there and his father finally lets out a frustrated breath. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"But we have only just begun, Your Highness. Give him time. Everyone breaks eventually," a general says, although Dean can see the hesitance etched across each of their faces. They're just as unsure as each other. His father turns on Dean suddenly, anger in his eyes.

"Go back to your chambers. You and I will be having a chat very shortly." Dean mumbles a ‘yes, father’ in return before hastily making his exit. He doesn't even bother heading towards the kitchens with the two guards that follow him. It's a small relief, however, that they don't follow him into his room for he sinks to the ground as soon as he shuts himself in, head in his hands and the tears fall freely now, unable to stop.

This is all his fault. The hurt and betrayal Castiel's feeling - the pain from his torture - all of it. His fault. That cry of pain, the tears on his cheeks, too pained to resist even his father’s touch – his eyes closed as if he was unable to keep them open for a moment longer or perhaps he didn't want to – it's all too much.

Dean's chest heaves as he sobs, thankful for the walls between him and the guards standing outside his door. And with them there, he cannot slip out for his mother's chambers just yet. But he will. Because if it can in anyway help Castiel – help Dean understand what his father is talking about, he has to try. And in the meantime, he must wait more hours in which more suffering will be inflicted on Castiel. 

He has to save him. He has to do it now. Get him out of here. Send him far away and tell him never to come back. 

But he can't do that like this. So, he lets it all out.

The self-hatred and guilt, the pain and fear. He lets it all out in the form of hacked off sobs and falling tears. And after what feels like hours, after it's all turned into a hollow ache in his chest, he stands, wiping his cheeks dry with the back of his hands and devises a plan. 

 

______________________________________

 

Their touches are soft and gentle and if he wasn't completely torn apart he would flinch away. But at this point, it's a comfort - the only comfort he can find with the agony that spreads through every inch of his body and mind. It's only after the maids leave that Castiel allows himself to heal - not enough to truly help himself - but enough to give the slightest relief from his broken fingers and his torn up back. And the agony at knowing that as he's unable to heal them now, when he does eventually, they'll scar. More marks to be etched into his skin. Forever. All reminders. But this one, perhaps the worst. 

Because he thought he finally had something. He thought he could finally feel some kind of happiness in--

His body trembles where he kneels, shoulders shaking heavily and the tears finally fall. He supposes he's not as strong as he thought he was. Dean's eyes - his face - no emotion. No guilt or empathy. Nothing. 

His mind tells him to keep questioning - because it still doesn't make sense - but the ache in his chest overwhelms him and he finds himself giving in. When he's saved eventually, he's not sure what Michael will say. He'll have to tell him everything. He wonders what everyone will say. How disappointed they'll be. Throwing away the chance at survival of his kind for a human prince. For some desperate need to be loved.

His knees are bruised and his shins ache on the stone floor and he gives his all to focus on it - to focus on the sting of the gash on his cheek and the fire in his back. But it won't stop the muffled sobs that breach his lips.

When he's saved - when they have to start all over again - Castiel's not sure if he'll be able to. His will evaporates with every moment that passes and if he could pass this burden onto Michael, he would in a heartbeat. But he can't. He'll have to keep going, whether he has the will to or not. Because that's his fate, right? 

A sad laugh falls from his lips, sobs coming harder after that.

He believes in his god. He does. His faith will never waver. 

But he doesn't believe in himself. And if he's the one - if he's the one to save this world from burning - to save his people from extinction - then there can only be one reason as to how that came to be. And it's that his god never chose him. His god was never here to guide him. 

His god left this place a long time ago.

 

______________________________________

 

The day is busy - a nobleman and his family visiting to speak with the kings over the terms of their new land. He can almost guarantee that his father completely forgot about it - too wrapped up in what's happening with Castiel. But he can't turn them away without raising suspicion, so for Dean it means time to plan. Time to get ready. He goes about his routine in the morning, eating in his own rooms - declining the offer to dine with Sam and Mervyn lest they ask what happened to Castiel - or why he doesn't currently have a permanent guard with him.

His father's guards are far too busy with the nobleman and attending no doubt to Castiel himself so he's merely left to his own devices. He does attend his lesson with Orderic, however, since Castiel not being there is quite the norm –  always wandering around in the shelves until he's finished – so that's what Dean pretends he's doing. He still receives a few glances from guards and servants at the lack of guard when he navigates through the halls but that confident smile always has them nodding back.

He waits until lunch, hiding out in the stables before slowly making his way towards the dungeons. No guards stand by the entrance and going through the door and down the first set of stairs, he peers around to see two guards standing outside the heavy door of Castiel's chamber. And inside, the harsh sounds of a beating. Dean has to calm his breathing before discreetly making his way back up and out into the hall without catching any stray eyes. 

He's strolling down the hall as his plan whirls around in his mind. Logically, he’ll have to do it at night as fewer people will be around and that's when the beatings end - allowing the guards to rest and sleep themselves. But he assumes that there will be at least two guards posted outside the door for the entirety of the night. And that's where his plan fails. There is no way he could sneak up on them because if they see him before he knocks them out, they'll only report back to his father and Dean will be apprehended as soon as he comes back from helping Castiel escape from the castle.

Which only leaves him with two options. Kill them or run away with Castiel.

He's not sure, as of this moment, if he can do either. But he'll have to make the decision soon. And he'll have to come up with a way other than going through the forest to get out because not only would a guard surely spot them making their way across the bare fields but the steep drop into the ocean doesn’t exactly bode well for anyone.

His mind races as he maps out the entire castle and its walls inside his head, hoping that he'll be able to remember something that could help him - anything that could--

He's jerked aside roughly, stumbling into a room before a door sounds shut behind him. He twists on his heels to find Dimarus glaring down at him. "What are you doing? Where is Castiel?"

Dean swallows. He hasn't been told. Not that he expected him too - his father appears only to trust the few generals and guards closest to him - but there is still a great relief that washes over him. And shame immediately washes over him after that. Because he doesn't want his friend to find out what he's been doing with Castiel. He doesn't want to know what his friend would think of him.

"He's not here."

"Yes, I can see that and I can most certainly see you wandering the halls alone.”

"I'm fine. And Castiel's feeling ill. I was just heading down to fetch some servants to bring up some soup for him," he says, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.

Dimarus narrows his eyes. "No, he's not." Dean winces. "I saw him. Being dragged towards the dungeons the other morning. I'd assumed he'd be out by now. As per usual. What did he do this time?"

Dean huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "Nothing. He didn't do anything. It was stupid. But you know what my father is like, he hates him."

Dean can see it. He almost buys it. But then, "Then why did you lie to me?" Any words die on Dean's tongue. And Dimarus must see the panic on his face, for he steps forward and places a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean shoves down all the words that threaten to spill because he wants to tell someone - needs to tell someone - but he can't. And he doesn't know what else to say. So, he says the only thing he can think of. "He's a sinner." If Dimarus goes digging, it's most likely the tale his father will spin. And it is the truth after all. 

Dimarus’ hand falls and his eyes widen. “Sinner?”

Dean swallows. “He wishes to lay with other men.”

“How do you know?” Dean opens his mouth but no words come out. Dimarus takes a step forward, eyes filled with concern. Concern that has Dean’s chest aching. “Did he try to…”

Dean shakes his head at first but finally nods anyway. Dimarus runs a frustrated hand over his beard. "Dean..."

"Its okay," Dean says, a little too quickly. "He didn't hurt me. And he didn't intend to. He just..." He lets it hang in the air. Dimarus can make of it what he wants. His friend nods, eyes earnest.

"Well, he was a good fighter. It's a disappointing loss." Dean nods jerkily. 

"Yes. It is." He stares at the floor to hide the shame on his face. It's not terrible. But he can't help but wonder how he would react if Dean told him the whole truth. 

"Why have you not called upon me to assign you a new guard?"

Dean's heart quickens. "I was intending on doing so but I just need a few days. There is too much on my mind and I would rather have some peace."

"You know I can't let you--"

"Just a few days, Dimarus. I've never in my whole life been able to be alone." He can see Dimarus' eyes filling with sympathy but his friend chews at his lower lip, shaking his head. 

"Dean."

"Please. I'm asking you as a friend," he begs, and after trading looks back and forth, Dimarus sighs. 

"A few days. But if your father calls upon me, I cannot deny him."

"Then don't bring it up."

Dimarus shakes his head, a small smile gracing his lips. "You be careful. Not leaving the outer wall or venturing off into the forest. Do you hear me?"

"Thank you. And I promise," Dean says, before ducking back out into the hall. He glances back over his shoulder one last time before the door shuts to find Dimarus' eyes wary.

 

______________________________________

 

It's the same two guards who torture him every time. He knows there are more standing outside the door but it's only the two that actually do the hurting. The others have only ever entered to watch over the maids when they came in that one time - yesterday he thinks, although he's almost certain he's lost track of time already - and to undo one of his chains on his wrists so he could stand properly to use the bucket. He was finally granted some water and stale bread a few hours or so ago, nodding in and out of consciousness until he was finally awoken by one of the guards to begin all over again.

The heat burns his side and his body tenses, clenching his jaw to fight against the pain. The guard lets the heated iron rod fall away, giving him some rest before he starts up again, touching the tip to the back of his calves, searing though the cloth of his trousers and into his skin. He doesn't know how many times he's done it since he focuses the entirety of his mind on drifting away before the guard finally stops. 

He walks slowly around to face Castiel, iron rod still clutched in a leather gloved hand. It's after he's been standing there for a while that Castiel finally lifts his gaze to meet the guard's. 

"You are a fighter. I'll give you that," he says out of nowhere, the first words that any guard has said towards him that wasn't a command. Castiel doesn't respond. The guard crouches down in front of him, eyes wandering all over the old scars - not the ones he's been inflicting himself. "No one's ever been able to defy our torture. To battle through the pain we inflict. But you--" He reaches out to drag his fingers over one of his scars, to which Castiel yanks away. The guard's eyes fill with wonder. "You've been hurt badly before. Haven't you?" 

Castiel's not sure what he's tying to get at, continuing to stare at him, gaze unwavering. 

"So, we've made a bet." The guard presses the iron rod across his ribs. Castiel lets out a harsh sound through his gritted teeth, toes curling in his boots. The guard presses it harder into his skin. His eyes flash with that familiar darkness. "Who can break you first."

The guard digs into his pocket with his free hand and pulls out what appears to be a nail, clean and shiny, and positions it above Castiel’s leg. The fear that rips through his body has him jerking hard against his chains. 

The guard smiles. 

Castiel's first screams echo off the walls.

 

______________________________________

 

Dean paces back and forth in his rooms. He can't eat. He certainly can't drink. The nerves are making him feel ill. It's a few hours until midnight now. Which means its time. Time to slip into his mother's rooms and find that journal. See if he can find anything useful. Anything that can help Castiel. And no matter the outcome, after that, just after midnight, he will rescue Castiel and help him escape.

His best option so far is still to exit out through the forest. The clouds, luckily, are out tonight, blocking some of the moonlight already. He still hasn't made his decision on whether to kill the guards or not. On whether to run with Castiel. He doesn't want to leave him and yet he doesn't want to leave his friends and Sam behind either. He doesn't want to never see them again or worse – have them be punished for his role in helping Castiel escape.

It's tearing him up inside but he needs to make his decision before rescuing Castiel. He doesn't have much time and he won't let Castiel endure any more torture. He can't.

He glances out into the hallway to find merely a few servants bustling around. He closes the door behind him, his feet still planted inside his chambers as he gathers his wits and any courage he has. He can do this. He has to.

He breathes, letting his eyes slip closed. He remembers the feel of Castiel's hands on his skin. Of those blue eyes staring up at him with what only could have been love. 

Love.

Dean's breath stutters. 

Dean loves him. 

And with that thought in mind, it's all the courage he needs.

 

______________________________________

 

The door clicks softly shut behind him and he releases a heavy breath, body relaxing at the thought he's at least made it this far. He faces his mother's chambers, eerily quiet and dim as ever. The dust hangs in the air, the only light coming in from the sealed shut window. He wastes no time in striding towards the bed and getting down on his knees to dig for the loose plank.

It comes up easily and he reaches his hand inside to find the familiar leather before pulling it out. He wipes the front, sitting back against the wall before opening it to roughly midway.

Something sounds outside in the hall and he freezes, straining his ears to listen. A small laugh breaches the air but it fades quickly along with the steps that match it. Dean releases an anxious breath, glancing back down to the journal in hand. He flicks forward, skimming over most of it, wanting to find the passage he came across when he first found her journal. He swears this halo and wings were mentioned. Whatever they mean.

His fingers tremble slightly as he searches, head occasionally lifting to eye the light under the door, hoping his father doesn't send any guards looking for him to have any chats just now. 

He pauses when he eyes something that isn't a journal entry. But a list.

_Dark and Light._

_Three._

_Wings, Halo, Grace?_

_What do these mean?_

The last question is underlined twice and glancing to the top of the page Dean finds that the date is two years before the war. Before she went missing. 

Dean stares at the words, something tugging inside of him. The dark and light he assumes refers to the angel's gods. And wings and halo – of course what he heard from his father. But grace, which he himself remembers reading of – his father never mentioned that. 

And three? Just a simple number. And yet, it stares back at him, as if yearning for him to remember.

He lets out a frustrated breath, almost ready to flick on but it feels important. 

_Wings, Halo, Grace?_

Perhaps that's what the number is referring to. These three things. Or 'powers' as his father had put it when discussing the halo and wings.

His head aches as he tries to remember and then suddenly it comes to him, that familiar voice rushing over him.

_The angel, unable to bear the thought of their beloved’s soul sinking into the depths of the underworld, decided to to fight against it. They knew they couldn’t defeat the God of Darkness and that the God of Light would never make the sacrifice needed. So, the angel did it themselves. They drew all essence that made them an angel out of them and used the three ingredients to do a powerful spell._

The story of the angel's fall. To close the gates to the underworld and consequently paradise - to stop the God of Darkness from condemning innocent souls, one of which was their lover - the fallen angel used three ingredients to do a powerful spell. All essence that made them an angel.

The power of the wings, halo and grace.

_Three._

An eery darkness falls over the room and a coldness creeps it's way up Dean's spine.

Because why would his mother write this down? These things to do with the angel's religion? Did she truly believe? Because if she did... then she believed in the rest of the story. Of a demon somehow still remaining on earth, hunting down the three ingredients to reopen the doors to the underworld. And how the angels saw what the God of Darkness had done and decided to come together to protect the earth. They came to Iowan. 

But didn't Castiel say the fallen angel scattered these powers? Perhaps the angels found some to protect.

Because how could his father have this halo they speak of? If he remembers correctly, in his mother’s journal it spoke of the angels holding the halo. 

But that was before…

Dean’s eyes slip shut. There is a way. 

He could have stole it. During the war. 

Dread spreads throughout his chest.

Dean's fingers flick the pages faster, eyes skimming words after words. 

_How can you hide your wings?_

_It was a spell._

Dean's heart pounds. He nearly flies past it but his eyes find those familiar words just in time.

Around five months before the invasion.

_It’s real. The Three. They’re all real. The wings, halo and grace. I witnessed it today. There was a great ceremony held at dusk. All of it is real. They always spoke to me as if it was real. I have grown very fond of them but I never believed it. I never believed any of it. But now…_

_The angels only hold the wings and halo – they haven’t found the grace after centuries of searching but they are determined they will._

_They have to now._

_They say that this is it. And I believe them. Because if this is real, then so is the prophecy. And if that is real... then the demon is too._

The hairs raise on the back of his neck, fear rising inside of him like he's never felt it before.

_And they are still out there, searching for the Three, still hoping to reopen the gates to the underworld. And this boy, this small boy - they say he is the only one who can defeat it. As the prophecy goes:_

_The one who must defeat the Last Demon and the only soul strong enough to wield the Three will be born with the blood of the fallen and the wings of the broken and will wage war against death in their tenth year. To bring balance to the world and eternal rest to all souls, the chosen will wield the powers and defeat the Last Demon. They are the Saviour of the Fallen. The Guider of the Souls. The Last Angel._

Tears prick behind Dean's eyes, his breath caught in his throat. No... All this time. It can't be.

_\--will be born with the blood of the fallen--_

_Because I'm an angel!_

_\--and the wings of the broken--_

_I was sick when I was born. My wings were broken._

_\--and will wage war against death in their tenth year--_

_I struggled for years. But on my tenth birthday, it was clear that I didn’t have long left. I was going to die._

Tears slips down his cheeks and Dean hangs his head.

It's all real. All of it. The gods, the fallen angel, the demon, everything.

And Castiel – the very Castiel he’s fallen in love with – is the only one who can save them. 

The Last Angel.

The journal falls shut in his hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is a little brighter, I promise :')
> 
> I thought since my uploading of chapters sadly isn't very consistent that I'd make a tagging list for those of you on tumblr (if you want to of course). So, send me an ask/message on tumblr if you want to be tagged when I post upcoming chapters. Or if you have an AO3 account you can subscribe to the story and I believe you get notifications whenever I post!
> 
> Comment below or leave some kudos if you enjoyed! Thanks so much for reading ♥
> 
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